


Pedagogy by Proxy

by Barb G (troutkitty), devo



Series: The Proxy series [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-07
Updated: 1999-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:14:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G, https://archiveofourown.org/users/devo/pseuds/devo





	Pedagogy by Proxy

Prologue _: Somewhere in Bora Bora_

Methos paused to wipe sweat from his forehead. "Hold," he said.

The boy paused, grinning, putting up his sword. Methos shook his head. Both men were wearing swimming trunks and nothing more, but where Methos’s skin was slick with exertion, the boy’s skin was streaming with blood from dozens of cuts.

"The whole point is to try to avoid the blade, Jonathan."

"Where’s the fun in that?" the boy asked, impishly.

Methos struck his blade into the sand. "What am I going to do with you?" he said, exasperated.

"Something...painful?" Jonathan lowered his lids then peered up through them. Stepping closer, he slid his body against the taller man’s skin, rubbing sinuously. Methos pushed him off.

"Go wash off, boy," he said. "Clean the blood off, at least. This isn’t a joke. You’re in the Game now. Do you want to die?

"No, Master," Jonathan said, his eyes downcast.

"It’s not a scene. This isn’t the club. It’s real. There is no safe word. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master."

"And stop calling me ‘Master’!" Methos said as he collected the blades and stormed off the beach.

"This is not working," Methos muttered to himself as he stomped into their bungalow. The boy needed a teacher, badly. Sending him to MacLeod, as he had originally planned, was out of the question—the Boyscout would never know how to handle Jonathan’s ingrained masochism. But Methos wasn’t faring very well at breaking the boy of the habit either. Perhaps there was someone else? Pondering his options, he began packing their belongings.

*********************

 

Chapter 1: A Favour, or, Rough Approximation

Pierre answered the door and glanced over the both of them. It didn't take him a moment to realize the relationship between the two. Methos almost looked...what, apologetic, and the boy looked terrified, but nothing could hide the heaviness in front of his jeans.

There were just so many possibilities for the first question to ask, so he started with the most obvious. "Yes?"

Methos gave him a glare, and Pierre stepped back, letting the man all but stalk to the sofa. "Beer," he ordered.

"Beer," Pierre told the boy, and his eyes lit up at the order. Pierre left him to find the bottles and the opener and hoped to God that the boy knew Methos' preferences. Pierre joined his occasional lover in the living room.

"Something followed you home so you kept it?" Pierre asked, mildly.

"Do not start with me, Pierre."

"I love it when you're pissy," Pierre said, and accepted the green bottle from the boy. "He yours?"

"Yes...no. Sort of. You want him?"

"You offering him?" Pierre asked, glancing at the boy. Scrawny, thin, and too eager to please--pathetic, really. The boy's frequent glances to Methos were almost sad. He watched his master with the same hopefulness as a puppy dying to fetch something.

Methos bowed his head as he strummed his fingers over his bottle. Pierre took that as a yes. "Boy," he said.

"Yes?" the boy said, and then bit his lip as Pierre just looked at him. "Sir," he amended.

"What's your name?"

"Jonathan."

"Go wait in my bedroom."

Jonathan looked at him, then back to Methos, who was studiously examining his label. Pierre snapped his fingers, and Jonathan jumped. "Do I have to repeat myself?" he asked.

Jonathan shook his head.

"Kneel facing the wall. Wait for me," Pierre ordered.

"Yes, sir," Jonathan said, but his eyes didn't leave Methos. He waited for a sign, a look, anything from Methos. When Methos finally turned around, Pierre saw the pure bliss in the boy's face.

"Nothing remains to be said," Methos said, finally.

Almost wretchedly, Jonathan walked to the bedroom and closed the door.

"Please tell me that wasn't the him," Pierre asked, leaning back in the chair. Methos glanced up, annoyed, but didn't speak, so Pierre continued. "Because if you dumped me for that I'll take your head right now."

"Credit me with some sense, Pierre," Methos sounded disgusted. "And if it wasn't for the him, I'd take him on. But things are...complicated."

"Where did you find him?"

"Around. Look, Pierre." Methos said his name with just enough emphasis to remind him that their relationship was based solely on groin-to-groins. "I found him. I can't teach him. Take him or I'll find someone else."

"Does he know anything?"

Methos rubbed his face. "He loves the feeling of a sword to his neck."

Pierre nodded and stood up. "I don't hold that against you, either."

Methos gave him another look and stood up as well. They stared at each other, Methos obviously as confused as he was over the sign of affection called for, but pulled Pierre in for a hug. "Take care of him," Methos whispered.

Pierre kissed him as Methos went to say something else, and Methos didn't complain as Pierre nibbled on his bottom lip. "I will," he murmured.

"And you," Methos managed.

"Uh-huh," Pierre agreed.

Methos broke from the kiss. "Promise me?"

"I promise," Pierre said.

Methos nodded and pulled reluctantly away.

The boy waited, fully dressed, with his knees pressed up against the wall. His back was ram-rod straight, and his hands were over his neck for easy binding. Pierre was familiar with the position.

"Don't turn around," Pierre ordered, coming up behind the boy. "How old are you, stud-muffin?"

The boy winced at the title. "I'm twenty, sir," the boy said.

The boy's youth made Pierre's jaw ache. He reached out with his bare foot and pressed into the boy's well-defined ass. Jonathan almost rose to it, but then deliberately sat back down over his foot. The denim was soft against the roof of his foot. Pierre ran his toe over the seam of the boy’s jeans, splitting the hard mounds. "You do like to take care of yourself, do you?" he asked. He nudged Jonathan up an inch, and the boy obediently shifted slightly forward. Pierre braced his palms against the wall, encompassing the boy with his body, and slowly worked his way to the tight balls pressing against the denim. If Pierre had to guess, he'd say the boy was going commando. "Don't you?" he asked, reminding Jonathan he had asked a question. To punish the boy's lapse, he ground the top of his foot against the heavy ballsac.

The response was predictable. Jonathan jolted, careful not to raise himself too far, and then sat back to the pain. "Yes, sir," he squeaked.

"Why is that?" Pierre asked. The back of the boy's head was just below his groin so there was nothing to stimulate himself with, but the scent of Jonathan's arousal hit him hard. The boy was subtly trying to hump his foot. Pierre reached down, echoing the fine movements against Jonathan's neck. Jonathan moaned under Pierre’s fingers, pressing into Pierre’s hand and his foot even more, and then winced as Pierre cuffed him hard over the ear. "Did I give you permission?" he asked, mildly.

"No," Jonathan said, but sounded mulish.

Pierre doubted the boy had spent much time with Methos before being handed over. Either that or the other man in Methos' life made the old man change a few things about himself. Methos would never have allowed him such churlishness. But that was a long time ago, and Pierre had needed it. "Take off your shirt," he said, annoyed that he had gotten distracted.

Jonathan pulled it off with pride, sucking in his breath to show his body off. The strong, elegant neck worked over to the broad shoulders, but the scars crossed over the golden skin with a randomness that was too familiar. Jonathan waited for him to comment, and the boy's body started to tremble as he continued to hold his breath.

"Very nice," Pierre said, but kept his voice flat. "Are you hard?"

"Yes, sir," Jonathan whispered, unable to stop himself from rocking minutely against his heels.

"Good," Pierre whispered. "I never want you to forget this night."

The boy's excited breath quickened again. Pierre stripped, and saw the tremble in the boy as he pulled off his jeans. The boy's neck muscles tightened as he obviously fought with himself not to turn around. Pierre moved behind him and smiled as Jonathan swallowed loud enough to hear, and then he kissed the boy on the top of his head. "Goodnight," he whispered, and turned off the light as he went to his bed.

* * *

Pierre woke up, stiff and sore from the very little actual sleep he had gotten from the night before. He calmed himself and sighed as the knot in his neck slowly healed itself. The boy had been stimulating himself all night. Not by actually coming, but his minute hisses and prolonged exhales told him that much. He had briefly considered yelling at the boy to knock it off, but decided to give the boy some freedom. What was the old joke? Masochist: hurt me, master. Sadist: no.

He hadn't done it to be cruel, though. He had done it to see how deep the boy needed the pain. His old master had done it to him, not while he was as turned on as the boy had been, but when he knew he was going to be punished and just wanted it over with. The longest nights in his box were not after the assaults. That was the easy part. That was shutting his mind off from the pain and concentrating his entire body on just accepting the air and then letting it go, each breath becoming a victory. No, the worst part was waiting, imagining the worst, and knowing that probably still wasn't close to reality.

The boy was awake now. Pierre heard the soft groans as the boy tried to restore blood circulation to his legs. Pierre went to the boy, and ran the back of his hand over the boy's cheek. Jonathan's body snapped back to his version of attention.

"Stand up," Pierre ordered.

Jonathan tried to jump to comply, but is legs were no longer able to obey him. He pulled himself to his feet, and stood, as shaky as a colt, in front of Pierre.

Pierre tilted the boy's neck back, and Jonathan stood still for it. The boy was completely exposed to Pierre, in the most vulnerable position an Immortal could take. Jonathan's eyes were closed--closed, not squeezed shut--and his entire body shivered with anticipation. Pierre kissed his Adam's apple, ran his tongue up the exposed ridges of the boy's throat, and then bit down, hard.

Jonathan jerked against him, but Pierre followed him to the wall, giving him no escape. His teeth broke the skin, and he swallowed the blood he caused, claiming the boy as his own. Jonathan stopped thrashing, accepting the pain without any of the pleasure he had come to expect from agony, and for the first time, Pierre smelled fear from the boy.

Pierre finished, wiping his mouth. "You're mine, now," he said.

Jonathan's eyes flew open. That, apparently, he understood. Pierre left him to go have a shower.

"Yes, Master," he heard the boy whisper as he exited the room.

*************

Pierre turned the cold water down a notch in the shower. The sudden heat over his shoulders and down his back was almost too hot to stand, but he braced himself and became accustomed to it. Mortification of the flesh, his style. What the hell was he doing? Jonathan was cute, he'd give Methos a point for his taste, but he had never taken a student before. He had never wanted the responsibility. He wondered if he could include the receipt and have Pierre returned.

He almost laughed. Methos hadn't given him a bill of sale. He supposed he would have to keep the boy.

Which did have its advantages. "Boy," he shouted.

Jonathan entered the steamy room, and automatically went for the towel. Pierre stepped out of the shower and lifted his arms for the boy to dry him. He wasn't turned on--the water had been far too hot for that--and Jonathan matter-of-factly dried him off, handling his cock deferentially.

"Ten minutes," he said.

The boy nodded, but smiled thankfully.

"Clean yourself up."

Jonathan nodded again. Pierre reached over and lifted his chin. "*Clean* yourself," he repeated.

The boy blushed, but his smile deepened.

*******

The boy had found Pierre’s enema kit, and obviously was no stranger to it. Pierre

snapped his fingers, and the boy dropped to his knees, and once again offered his arms for easy restraining. Pierre took out the dog collar and leash from his bed side table, and Jonathan's breathing changed. The boy's cock, half dormant against his thigh, woke up. Pierre walked to the boy and let the chain rattle against itself. Jonathan's nipple rings gleamed against his skin, pink from scrubbing, as the boy took a deep breath, shyly offering himself.

But Pierre wasn't taking yet. He walked behind the boy and dangled the cold metal against the boy's shoulder. The chain slid down the front of the boy’s neck, the metal links dragging across his skin as Pierre walked around him. The boy moved his mouth, but didn't try to say anything. Pierre placed the palm of his hand against Jonathan's forehead and pushed the boy back so that his abdominal muscles were the only thing hold him up. Jonathan pushed back against Pierre’s palm, not as a challenge, but to feel his master's hand. His skin was damp from the shower but not clammy.

Pierre switched hands, holding Jonathan in place with his left while dangling the chain down the boy's chest. The sound of the metal striking the nipple rings made Jonathan hiss, and Pierre deliberately let the chain run and catch the small ring as it slipped past him. "Stay," he ordered and let Jonathan's forehead go.

Jonathan remained in position as Pierre quickly looped the choke chain over the boy's testicles. He yanked it tight, and the boy shuddered. "Stand up," he ordered.

The boy was unsteady on his feet. The weight of the chain was heavy, and Pierre deliberately swung the chain softly to add to the pressure. "Bed."

He gave the boy enough slack to reach the bed, but not enough to mount it. Jonathan strained against the chain as hard as he could and then trembled as Pierre slowly came to him. Pierre wrapped the leash around his fist as he walked and stopped as his fist touched the boy's wiry pubic hair for the first time.

"So tell me, pretty boy. What do you want?"

The boy froze, obviously thinking hard. He looked nervous, as if unsure of the correct responses in Pierre's game, uncertain about the rules. He settled on the old stand-by, "To please you, Master," he whispered.

Pierre let his voice go harsh and laughed at the boy. He made a fist, tightening the chain over the boy's cock. "What are these?" he asked and ran his hand over the boy's left nipple. He took the steel hoop between his fingers and slowly started pulling on it. The boy tried straining to avoid the pain, but Pierre kept the chain on his testicles just as tight. Jonathan couldn't stretch any further.

A flash of real pain crossed the boy's pretty face. "Adornments, Master," he managed.

"And who adorned you?" Pierre asked. He tugged one more time and let the ring go. Jonathan rocked back to the balls of his feet, momentarily relieved, and then his entire body tensed again as Pierre started to play with the second ring. He rolled the ring around his finger and enjoyed the tension on it. He twisted it quickly and went back to rolling it gently when Jonathan's half-formed cry escaped.

"My first Master, Master," he gasped. "Please."

"You have to be more specific than that. Please stop or please don't?" Pierre asked. He dropped his hand down the boy's well defined abdomens and ran a single nail over the purple erection. "Tell me about him."

"Now?" Jonathan asked. It was almost a whine.

Pierre scratched the head of the boy's cock, viciously. Only the chain choked around his cock kept him upright. "Are you arguing, slave?" he demanded.

"No, Master! He took care of me."

"He whipped you," Pierre whispered softly into the boy's ear delicately ran his forefinger and his thumb over the boy's erection. The sudden gentleness made Jonathan weak again.

"He was my Master," he whispered back, just as softly.

That angered Pierre. He grabbed the boy and flipped him onto his back. The boy hit the bed so hard that he bounced, and Pierre, followed him down, throwing the boy's legs wide apart. Jonathan struggled against him for less than a heartbeat, and then stopped fighting and let Pierre readjust his body at will.

"Tell me, Jonathan. Have you ever been raped? Have you ever felt the breath of a man on the back of your neck and known that nothing you can say, nothing you can do, nothing you can offer to your gods will ever stop this? Have you ever been used, Jonathan?" Pierre asked. He tied the leather part of the leash to Jonathan's thigh and let the boy decide how much he wanted to struggle. Jonathan caught on right away and spread his knees a little further apart. The sound of the choke-chain moving up a link echoed in the small room.

"No, sir," Jonathan said, but his voice was suddenly unsure.

Pierre placed both his hands on the boy's taut thigh muscles. He pressed down on them, indenting the boy's skin with his fingers. "Tell me, Jonathan. Have you ever been hurt? So hurt you didn't know if you were alive or dead but you could only pray for the latter just to end it? Imagine, no safe word, no rights, no reprieve. Nothing between you and the pain and all the time in the world. And after, after that, Jonathan, imagine being alone, cold, and shivering in a cell. Bleeding. Battered, and feeling your real master's come seeping out of your ass."

"No, Master," Jonathan whispered, and sounded afraid. Pierre touched the boy's nose, and slowly dragged his finger down the soft indent, pressing the boy's lip against his teeth. He moved down, up and over the chin, and ran down the boy's throat, between his clavicle, and then down the line of his chest. Jonathan panted hard under him, but didn't start squirming until Pierre had reached his lower belly. "Yes, Master, yes," the boy whispered.

Pierre bypassed his groin, pressing his finger against where the chain cut into the boy's testicles. The boy whimpered at being robbed, but arched his back as Pierre slipped the finger inside him. Not only was the boy cleaned, he was also lubed and ready. "No," Pierre said and pulled out of him. He lifted the boy's thighs up, which slacked off some of the pressure on the chain. "I don't want you damaging yourself," he said.

Jonathan moaned as the chain slacked, but in the next heartbeat, Pierre was inside him, buried far deep within. Jonathan reached out and gripped on to the headboard, blindly reaching for restraint, and gasped as Pierre pushed him into a more awkward position. Jonathan's face tightened as the Pierre screwed him harder into the mattress. Pierre slammed into him, and then viciously pinched the boy's cockhead. Jonathan tried to sit up, but forgot he was gripping onto the iron posts of the headboard and then forgot to let it go. Pierre undid the chain, keeping the head of the cock tightly between his fingers, and then removed his hand and raked his nails across the boy's chest.

The reaction wasn't a second later. Jonathan sprayed cum over himself, Pierre and the bed as he sobbed in agony. Pierre pulled away and left the boy on the bed.

By the time Pierre got out of the shower, the boy was stirring again. "Master?" he asked.

"Yes, boy?" he asked, picking out a new pair of jeans.

"You didn't--" Jonathan stopped as the doorbell rang.

"You're right. I didn't. Get that," Pierre ordered.

Jonathan stood up gingerly and reached for his pair of jeans. Pierre stepped on it. "You didn't hear me. I said get that."

The boy's blush glowed, spreading down from his cheeks to his neck and across his chest, but he stood straight as he walked out of the room. Pierre glanced at the bed, shook his head, and followed.

Robert was at the door, admiring his new acquisition. Pierre kissed him, distractedly, and went into the kitchen. "Go change the sheets," he ordered Jonathan, and then glanced to Robert. "Hungry?"

Robert wasn't looking at him. Pierre snapped his fingers. Jonathan heard the snap and turned at the door, but quickly ducked inside when he realized it wasn’t for him. "I asked if you were hungry?"

"Starved," Robert said, still not looking at him. Once Jonathan was out of view, he turned to Pierre.

"Yours?" Robert asked.

"More like...a favour for a friend."

"I didn't think you played that scene."

"Who's playing?" Pierre asked, taking out the carton of eggs. Jonathan returned from the bedroom, and waited quietly at the entry to the kitchen. Pierre had breakfast on the table shortly afterwards. He only set two settings, but piled his plate with twice as much food. Another snap of the fingers and Jonathan knelt at his feet.

Robert was trying not to stare as Pierre hand fed Jonathan his breakfast. Pierre let the boy lick his fingers clean, and stroked him on the cheek occasionally. Robert continued talking about his trip to New Zealand, but his eyes kept drifting off to the boy. Pierre ignored the insult, and Jonathan was oblivious to it. He cupped the boy's cheek, and the boy turned to him and kissed his palm. Pierre played with the boy's curls.

Robert had been fun. He was nothing to him except a Thursday all-day body, but with the boy at his feet, Pierre suddenly realized he didn't want Robert any more. For sex, yeah. Robert had a great body and his tongue was second to none, but after today, it wouldn't bother him to never see Robert again.

By unspoken agreement, the two of them stood up. Pierre patted his thigh, and Jonathan jumped to his feet. They went into the bedroom. The bed was neatly made, tucked in and set; the boy was more domesticated than he looked. Pierre pointed to the side of the bed, and Jonathan glanced at him, crestfallen. Pierre narrowed his eyes and the boy bolted and knelt where he was told, crossing his hands behind his back. Pierre only had one pair of handcuffs, and he snapped them on the boy's offered wrists and then took the telephone cord out of the wall. He lashed the boy's ankles to his wrists, and watched as Jonathan tested the bonds himself. When he realized he really was immobile, he looked up to Pierre with complete and devoted thanks.

Robert looked disappointed that the boy wasn't going to be joining them. Pierre stripped off his jeans and knelt on the bed. Robert joined him a heartbeat later. "Does the audience bother you?" Pierre asked.

Robert shook his head, glancing at the boy. He grabbed Pierre's hips and dragged him forward so that their groins met. Pierre bit the man's shoulder, and then they kissed again.

Even when he was on his hands and knees, positioned on the edge of the bed to make it easier for Robert's pistoning cock inside him, he found himself looking for Jonathan. The boy was on the edge of the bed, leaning as far forward as he could. Pierre stretched out and ignored the angry grunt as Robert lost his grip on Pierre's hips. Robert had to get onto the bed, a position Pierre knew he hated, and they took a moment to reposition themselves. Robert knelt behind him, spreading his knees wide, and Pierre lowered himself down on the stiff cock behind him. Jonathan's eyes widened and his lips parted, but he didn't say anything.

Pierre played with himself. Robert's body slamming into his made things a bit awkward, but at least his hands were free. He ran his hand down his own neck and slowly squeezed his nipples between his fingers, pulling them one way, then the other.

Jonathan's breath quickened, and he licked his lips. Pierre almost laughed. The boy's reaction was getting him off harder than the cock, even when it did occasionally did scrape over his prostate.

He reached down and gathered the drop of pre-come off his dick. He rubbed its slipperiness between his fingers, and then leaned forward and brought it to Jonathan's lips. The boy lapped at it, just as he had over breakfast. Pierre slid his finger into Jonathan's mouth, and the boy parted his lips for it. Pierre stroked the surface of the boy's tongue, and it was soft and silky. Jonathan opened his mouth wider, and Pierre obligingly slid a second finger in, and then a third. Jonathan sucked on them, giving his fingers almost as good head as his cock had ever gotten. The boy had his talents, at least.

Robert grabbed him, throwing him to the mattress for the final thrusts. Pierre reached out, enjoying the last humps of a desperate man. It put him nose to nose with Jonathan, and Pierre grabbed the boy, holding him tightly as Robert fucked him. Pierre kissed him everywhere but actually on the mouth as Robert collapsed over him, grunting as he came.

Pierre let the boy go and watched as Robert went around the room to pick up his clothes. His cock, still more than half hard, bobbed in the air, but Pierre found he had nothing to say. Robert knew it was the end of the relationship, and instead of feeling his usual sadness for the loss, he felt nothing. The door slammed behind Robert as he left.

Pierre pushed back to a kneeling position, and then slid his legs out from under himself. He sat on the edge of the bed with Jonathan between his thighs, and he waited. Jonathan sat rooted to the spot as Pierre's cock, still red and angry, poked straight up.

"Gentle," Pierre said, and slowly took Jonathan's head to his cock. "Nice and gentle," he repeated. "This is how I like it."

Jonathan nodded as best he could with his mouth full. Pierre lay back and stretched. His ceiling was stucco, and the beige paint was almost sloppily done where the wall joined it. God, Jonathan was good. He'd have to get chains securely fastened to the wall if this relationship was going to work.

Jonathan started to hum, finding the right chord, and Pierre was gone. He carefully took hold of the boy's head and held Jonathan to him. His fingers itched to grab the boy and force himself deeper, but the boy had been very careful to be gentle. He rewarded Jonathan by running his fingers over the boy's cheek as his body helplessly writhed against the bedcovers.

Jonathan swallowed, relaxing in his bonds. A drop of Pierre's come dripped down his lip, and the boy let it slid down his chin. Pierre lay back again, letting the warmth from his orgasm slide out of him. He sat up, licking the white line from Jonathan's lip, but pulled away rather than taking the mouth that Jonathan offered so willingly.

The boy strained against his ties but didn't try to escape from him. His flesh was white around the cord. Pierre stood up on slightly wobbly legs and walked around the boy. Jonathan so obviously wanted to turn around, but kept his eyes straight ahead. Pierre knelt behind the boy, and without being told to, Jonathan snuggled back into him.

"Don't talk," Pierre ordered. He kissed Jonathan's shoulder and placed both hands over the boy’s rib cage. The boy’s breathing had a ragged, shallow pattern to it. "Shhh. Easy. That's right; inhale, exhale, inhale..." he whispered rhythmically. The boy obeyed him, trembling under his hands.

"Did you enjoy watching that?" Pierre asked.

The boy moaned, which, Pierre had to agree, wasn't talking, but he reached down and tweaked a nipple. "No," he whispered. The boy bowed his head in shame. Jonathan rocked his head back, working against Pierre's body. "It's okay, I forgive you," Pierre whispered. "Just relax and breathe."

The boy's regular breathing returned. Pierre reached down, cupping the tight balls against Jonathan's body. "Would you like to come?" he asked, licking the boy's ear. Jonathan's hands were chained behind him, and Pierre felt them clench between them. "You've been such a good boy, would you like me to jerk you off?"

The boy shuddered, and his fingers ran across Pierre's belly. Pierre heard the whisper of the boy's breath, the kiss of his lips touching as the boy focused on breathing, but Pierre didn't stop him. He cupped the boy's cock lightly between his fingers, and then squeezed. The boy inhaled, sharply, but Pierre latched onto the boy's ear and slowly bit down, locking his jaws.

Jonathan threw his head back. Pierre lost his grip on the boy's lobe and Jonathan screamed as he pulled free, then threw himself backwards against Pierre. Pierre took his weight. "Let it go," Jonathan whispered as the boy started to sob.

Pierre held him until the sobs subsided, and then kissed him on the top of the head. He undid the cord and rubbed out the deep white grooves. Jonathan collapsed back, and Pierre held him. "You may speak," he whispered.

"Master, thank you," the boy whispered. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Jonathan pulled away. "You need a shower," he whispered. "Then you have to clear the table."

"Yes, Master," Jonathan whispered.

Pierre kissed the top of his head.

************

That night, Jonathan cleared the table again from dinner while Pierre read his mail in the living room. When he was finished in the kitchen, Jonathan brought Pierre a beer and offered it, kneeling. Pierre grabbed his wrist and pulled the boy onto his lap.

"Share?" he asked, nuzzling the boy's neck.

Jonathan settled down against him. Pierre kissed his neck and twisted the cap off. Jonathan held his hands out to Pierre, crossing the wrists. "Master, please," he

whispered.

Pierre gathered his wrists up, holding them over the Jonathan’s head. He pulled the boy's arms up, stretching him out. Jonathan smiled beautifully, and parted his lips when Pierre pressed the lip of the bottle against his lips. "Trust me," Pierre whispered, and poured enough for the boy to swallow easily.

Jonathan smiled, opening his mouth for more, when Pierre felt the first drop of blood land against his wrist. He looked up and saw Jonathan's nails embedded in his flesh. The drops turned into a steady stream, and through the obvious pain, Jonathan continued to smile beautifully.

Pierre stood up and spilled the boy onto the floor. "Master--" Jonathan

started, but silenced at Pierre's glare.

"Stay out of my bed," he snapped, and slammed the door shut.

Methos answered the door with a sword. "He's fucked."

"I told you that."

"You told me nothing! You show up at my door with this...this..."

"He needs you, Pierre."

"He needs...therapy. He needs to be institutionalized. He needs--"

"You. He needs you."

"That's the last thing he needs, Adam. I'm not the man for him."

Methos put the sword against the wall. Pierre took a step back, but Methos

took hold of his chin. "He is no worse than you were."

"I didn't *want* to be that way!"

"And you think he has a choice?" Methos asked.

Pierre kissed Methos and tried to undo his slacks. "Methos, Methos, please--" he began, using Methos' real name for the first time.

Methos caught his hands. "You took the pain because it was the only way to anger your master. He takes it because it's the only way to please. Teach him other ways."

Methos closed the door behind him. Pierre drove around all night, but stopped around dawn on the side of the road. He parked the car, got out, and watched the sunrise. He had taken the pain, but only because his master had give him the choice. Pain or...Pierre shuddered, still feeling the thick cock against his lips or in his ass. His master had been a huge man, thick and fat and sadistic. Pierre had been his favourite plaything, too. It had been a point of honour for him to see how much pain he could endure before willingly bending over, spreading himself out for the fingers, or the cock, or whatever else his master had planned for him. There had been times he

had been hurt so much that he couldn't verbally acquiesce, and his permission was taken through his lack of struggle.

And Jonathan wanted that. The boy needed it. That was the worst part. Not the

submission, but the pain. Pierre sighed and went back to the car.

Jonathan didn't look like he had gotten much sleep, either. He lay curled up on the floor in front of the couch, scrambling to get up as the door opened. Jonathan moved his mouth, staring at Jonathan sleepily, but said nothing, dropping to his knees and offering his wrists to him instead.

"Bedroom, now," Pierre said.

Jonathan stood up, and walked stiffly past him into the room. Pierre leaned against the door. "Strip," he ordered.

Jonathan dropped his clothing and waited, trembling. He looked up to Pierre, eyes extremely wide.

"May I speak, Master?" the boy whispered.

Pierre nodded, but still didn't move from the door.

"Not the wall again, Master. Please, Master," Jonathan whispered. He looked up, almost fearful. "Not the wall."

Pierre stepped up next to him. "Not the wall," he whispered.

Jonathan slumped forward; he was that relieved. "Thank you, Master."

"Get on the bed," Pierre said. Jonathan trembled, but obeyed, lying face down. Pierre didn't have anything but binder twine, but the boy didn't seem to mind the cut in his flesh. Jonathan trembled, tied open for him, and Pierre sat down next to him. He stroked the boy's back. "Do you trust me?" he asked, and then saw the leather gloves. Pierre picked them up and inhaled the sharp leather scent. There was the leather scent, and something else. Jonathan's body tensed as he picked them off the bed-side table. "I thought I left these in the hall," he said, quietly.

Jonathan bowed his head. "You did, Master."

Pierre pulled the gloves on. They were old and the leather was soft against him. He licked the index finger, salty, but not the leather type of salt. Sweat. Jonathan hissed as Pierre drew his fingers down the boy's back. Jonathan winced at the pressure, but there was no real pain, yet.

"You pleased me by telling me what you like. If I ask, I want you to tell me again."

"Yes, Master," Jonathan said.

Pierre stroked the boy's head. "And none of this 'whatever pleases you, master' crap, you got that? I know what pleases me."

"Y...yes, Master," Jonathan said, but sounded uncertain. Pierre stroked his hair one more time. The boy would learn.

Pierre got off the bed, and Jonathan whimpered as Pierre's weight left him. Pierre walked to the head of the bed and knelt down next to the boy. He put one hand over the boy's neck and hushed him. "You like these?"

"Yes, Master."

"Open your mouth."

The boy obeyed. Pierre touched the boy's cheek for a second and then ran his finger around the boy's lips. "Suck," he ordered, inserting his finger.

Jonathan struggled to take more of it, but he didn't have the freedom he needed. He moaned in protest, and Pierre pulled away. "No," he said and stood up. "Take what I give you. Don't ask for more."

Jonathan nodded, and then parted his lips again. The suction through the leather was strange, but arousing. Pierre felt the heat from the boy's mouth, the feeling of his saliva moving around his finger, but the sensations were secondary.

""Now I'm going to ask you a different question, Jonathan. Do you want more? Does it feel good? Don't tell me 'whatever pleases you'," he added harshly.

Jonathan was confused. He knew he was a *very* good sub. He had worked hard on training his responses to please a master--so that he could submerge himself in the comfort of knowing he was doing his best. But this...this was different.

Pierre pulled his finger out of the boy's mouth. He rested it against Jonathan's lip and used his second finger to smooth away the first beads of sweat that gathered on Jonathan's upper lip. "Tell me," he whispered.

"Yes...Master. Please," Jonathan said. Pierre heard the hesitation in it. He smiled at the boy, and slipped the two fingers together. The boy opened his throat and took his fingers, passively accepting him. Pierre found himself grinding against the bed, but stopped himself. "Relax. Breathe, Jonathan. Concentrate on that. Nod when you want another."

Jonathan swallowed around his fingers, but the boy waited to take two deep breaths before nodding. Pierre kissed his forehead to reward the boy. It wasn't much of an original thought, but it was a beginning.

Jonathan struggled with three. Breathing became a problem. He strained, but worked his tongue between Pierre's fingers. Jonathan looked up to Pierre and nodded again.

There was no way the boy was fitting four fingers in. Pierre considered just going on to the next part, but the boy had asked for it. Jonathan worked his jaw as Pierre forced the fourth finger in his mouth, and the boy's breathing became even more laboured. Pierre didn't make it easier for him. "Does this please you?" he asked.

Jonathan looked at him as he laboured to breathe, but he tried to smile. His tongue worked against Pierre's fingers again. Pierre pulled away, and the boy turned his head away and coughed. Pierre opened the bedside table drawer, and took out the Vaseline. "Relax, little slave. Would you like a blindfold?"

Jonathan tensed for a moment, but then shook his head.

"Tell me, pretty boy."

"No, thank you, Master," Jonathan said. His voice sounded rough. "Master?"

"What, slave?"

"May I...a gag, please?"

Pierre ran a hand down the boy's buttocks. "Not today, little one. I want to hear you. Gags do not please me," he said. But he moved between the boy's spread thighs and kissed his way to the small of the boy's back. It took a lot for the boy to ask, and he had to be rewarded.

Jonathan's body trembled under him. "We do this my way," Pierre whispered. "Fight me in any way and you'll be kneeling, facing the wall until tomorrow morning. Do you understand?"

The boy nodded, and then remembered himself. "Yes, Master."

Pierre kissed him again. "Very good, slave. I like the sound of your voice. It pleases me."

Jonathan flushed with the compliment. "Thank you, Master."

"You are welcome." Someone taught the boy how to accept compliments. That was a start, at least. Jonathan jumped against his bonds as Pierre kissed the small of the boy's back again, and moved down the line of the boy's cleft. The salt from the boy's skin tickled his tongue.

He slapped the boy, lightly. Jonathan almost lifted himself off the bed. Pierre let him struggle long enough to realize that the bonds weren't going to release him, and then slapped him again. "Settle down."

The boy lay still. Pierre lapped around the ring of tight muscles. "Relax, little slave. You might care for pain, but I don't. You're too tight."

The boy trembled, but the tightly clenched muscles of his ass relaxed.

"Better," Pierre said encouragingly. He licked the boy flatly, and then flicked his

tongue at the opening.

Jonathan relaxed further, so Pierre increased his pace. Sometimes he worked above the opening, sometimes below. When the boy's breathing calmed and his body accepted the lack of pain, Pierre pressed his tongue into him.

Jonathan wasn't quite gasping. The slight cries were muffled, at least. After Pierre ran his gloved finger through the jelly, he removed his tongue from the boy and slowly replaced it with his finger.

Jonathan gasped and twitched. He tried to force himself against the finger as much as his bonds would allow, but Pierre pulled away. "Remember what I said, slave. What I give you. Nothing more."

Jonathan lay back down, breathing hard. Pierre started over again, first with his tongue, and then with his finger. The first time he inserted the full length of his digit. Jonathan groaned into the pillow.

"Breathe," Pierre ordered.

Jonathan trembled again and sighed as Pierre added another bit of Vaseline against his anus. "Are you ready for more?" Pierre asked.

"Yes, Master," Jonathan said, and Pierre felt the boy relax further. "I want that."

Pierre smiled; it didn't take long for Jonathan to adapt. The leather was greased from the lubrication, and it slipped easily inside of the boy. Pierre cupped the boy's testicles with his left hand while working the boy's opening with his two fingers. "Slave?" Pierre asked, and then leaned forward to nuzzle the small of the boy's back again.

"Yes, Master?" Jonathan gasped.

"Would you like to stop?" he asked, just to make sure the boy was actually listening to him.

"No, thank you, Master," the boy said, and shuddered again.

"Would you like me to continue?"

"Yes, Master. That would be nice."

Pierre laughed. One day he was going to get to know this boy. Three fingers were tight. He couldn't work them as well as he could when it was only two. Pierre kissed the boy's ass cheek again, and then bit down. Jonathan yelped, and ground against the mattress. Pierre bit him again, and then kissed the two bite marks as they slowly disappeared from Jonathan's skin. Pierre rubbed the perineum with his thumb, while slowly fucking the boy with his fingers.

Jonathan groaned. "Master!"

Pierre stopped moving. "Yes?" he asked. If the boy asked for more before he was ready for it, Pierre would have to go back to the beginning. He didn't particularly want to start over again; his own cock was screaming at him, and only two thousand years of self-control kept him from ruining the game.

Jonathan laughed. It was the first time Pierre had heard him do that. "This pleases me, Master," he said.

"Glad to hear it, slave boy. Shall we try four?" He could feel the boy relaxing further with the laughter.

"Oh, yes, Master."

"Good," Pierre said. He added more lubrication and worked the ring of muscles again. He stretched them gently and then brought his pinky to the opening. For a moment the muscles resisted and Pierre almost stopped. Jonathan relaxed further in his bonds, and the fourth finger slid in. It was so tight against his fingers, but at least with the gloves on he didn't have to worry about his fingernails cutting the boy.

Jonathan turned his head again so that Pierre could see his face. The boy was riding the sensation. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes squeezed shut, and his mouth slightly open in a very beautiful smile. He was whispering to himself, but it was just a string of thank-you’s. Pierre moved up, slowly moving his hand inside the boy, and kissed the small of his back. Pierre couldn't take much more of this; his own erection throbbed in his jeans. "Slave?"

Jonathan opened his eyes and blinked a couple times. "Master?" he asked brokenly.

"Are you ready?"

Jonathan inhaled and held it. Pierre felt the boy's internal muscles moving against his fingers. "Yes, Master. I'm ready."

"Relax, slave."

"Yes, Master," the boy said, and lowered his head down to the pillow. Jonathan angled his hips, but it wasn't to force himself back, rather, to make it easier. A daub more Vaseline, and Pierre worked his thumb next to his palm. The first joint went in easy, but he had to actually push. Jonathan groaned, but he turned his face into the pillow as the sound became pained. The boy tensed against him, unwillingly, but Pierre didn't pull away. His hand went in, and once it was past the second joint, there were no other problems. Jonathan threw his head back as Pierre slowly began fucking him with his hand. Pierre reached down with his other hand, and started massaging the boy's testicles in time with the internal manipulations.

"Master...may I come?" the boy gasped.

"Certainly," Pierre said, keeping his voice dry.

Jonathan clamped down against his wrist. He thrust against the bed sheet once, and he was coming desperately. Pierre wasn't even touching himself, and he, too, was gone. Jonathan groaned, once, and then collapsed limply against the bedding.

Pierre carefully pulled out, but his wrist did have blood on it. He left the boy passed out on the bed as he stripped off the gloves and threw them out. He took a cloth, wiped the boy down, and was glad to see him already healing. He cut the twine and collapsed next to the sleeping boy.

************

Chapter 2: Histories, or, Teaching a New Dog Old Tricks

Pierre woke hours later. They had slept through most of the day; late afternoon light painted the room in warm tones. Jonathan had moved next to him, but he delicately separated himself and left the room. His mouth was dry, and he opened a bottle of water from the fridge as the coffee percolated.

He brought his bottle and his mug to the computer and turned it on. His stocks, after a weekend of neglect, hadn't done too badly, but it took him almost half an hour just to update everything. He checked his e-mail, and was sorting through the 139 messages waiting for him when he felt Jonathan behind him.

He was about to order the boy to not bother him, when he realized the boy wasn't. Jonathan came to him, and Pierre noticed he moved stiffly but not painfully. Jonathan dropped down to his knees. Without taking his eyes off the screen, Pierre reached down and stroked the boy's hair. Jonathan nuzzled his palm, and crawled down between his legs.

The boy undid Pierre's robe and picked up the semi-hard cock. Pierre glanced down; he hadn't realized he was hard until Jonathan touched him. He went to push Jonathan away, but he loved the boy's cockiness. Pierre had work to do, however, and no little punk was going to distract him. Jonathan looked up at him. It was almost impossible to concentrate on the numbers flying across the screen as he felt Jonathan's cheek rubbing against him, but he steeled himself. The boy's breath touched him next, and Pierre's knees jerked against the desk leg, but he didn't say anything about it. Jonathan laughed and moved in closer. Pierre continued his transactions with Jonathan giving him one of the best blow-jobs of his life. The whole thing was surreal, down to the half-light from the setting sun outside his window.

Pierre didn't close his eyes until the first of the orgasmic flushes spread across his body. He reached down, took hold of the boy's head, and pulled him closer.

Jonathan didn't back away. Pierre touched his hair lightly as his cock softened in the boy's mouth and Jonathan's breath touched his lower belly.

The sensation brought back a long-forgotten memory, he and his brother Nilus

lying together after making love. His brother Nilus, and his lover...

He was adopted, of course. As were all Immortals, but Pierre was orphaned, not once, but twice. Taken in as an infant by a family of well-placed Roman Jews, and again at the age of 8 by his best friend Nilus' family when his first family died of fever.

By fifteen, it was apparent to everyone that he was adopted. His cheeks were higher boned than his adoptive brothers, and no amount of dirt could cover how delicate his nose was or the set to his eyes.

The wrong man noticed him. Claudius stopped his procession in the lower city, and offered the two boys coins to watch them wrestle. Pierre won easily, but it would have been better to stand the humiliation of letting his best friend Nilus pin him for a few seconds than having to go up to Claudius, still stripped from the match, and take the coin from the man's fat and sweaty hand. The second time he won, Claudius grabbed his wrist and wouldn't let him go as he ran his hand up and down his body. Pierre yanked back, but it wasn't enough to break free. Claudius studied him up and down, and saw his circumcision. Pierre blushed and winced as Claudius' manicured nails dug into his flesh.

"Would you like to earn three times that, little Perigenes?" Claudius asked.

Pierre shook his head, still trying to pull away. "Please, sir," he whispered, not looking up.

Claudius let him go. Pierre fell back. "Soon," the man said.

Pierre turned on his heel and ran, stopping long enough to pull his tunic back on. "It's not wise to anger him, Peri," Nilus said. "Do you know who he is?"

"I know," Pierre said and spat.

"Peri--" Nilus began.

Pierre tackled him, and they rolled on the ground. "Do you really want me to share my bed with that thing?" he demanded. Nilus was a year older and bigger, although Pierre was a better wrestler. The bigger boy flipped him around, and Pierre felt his lover's cock nudge his thigh. "Not here," Pierre said, forcing Nilus off him.

"Where? Then?" Nilus said, and groped him. "I thought he wouldn't like your little cut dick when mine's available."

Pierre made a face; he hated it when Nilus mentioned it. It was bad enough he was circumcised, but to have his brother tease him about it made it even worse. "You want him he's yours," he said, and thrust himself into Nilus' hand. Nilus let him once, and then pulled away.

"He's rich, you know."

"Yeah, so? He stinks and he hurt me," Pierre said. He showed Nilus the forming bruises from the man's fingers.

"He'd be good for your career," Nilus said, ignoring the marks.

Pierre snorted. "I'm going to be a famous captain, and you're going to be my first," Pierre said, standing up. "We don't need him, remember?"

"No, I'm going to be the captain and you're going to be my first."

"Race you home," Pierre said, wanting to change the subject.

Nilus took off ahead of him. Pierre barely caught up in time to touch their door first.

Pierre didn't say anything about Claudius, but kept Nilus with him for the next month.

They had gone down to the coliseum to watch the races, and Nilus had bought a wineskin. They shared it on the walk back. Pierre hung off Nilus' neck as they walked. Nilus let him lean on him, although Pierre had won the betting. Pierre rarely drank, and this went right to his head. Nilus pulled him into a darkened doorway, spun him around, and pushed him against the door.

Pierre swallowed the wine Nilus poured for him, and then coughed it up as Nilus started kissing down his neck. Nilus let him spit up the wine, and then gripped onto his hips. "You drink like a girl," he whispered.

"You fuck like one," Pierre said, and then covered his mouth with his wrist to hide the giggle.

"Only half the time," Nilus whispered. He kissed Pierre, working his hand up Pierre's tunic. Pierre caught his wrist. "Nilus," he said, but then let go. Nilus always knew exactly where to touch him; he always had.

Nilus didn't stop until he had both their cocks in his hand. "I love the way you feel," Nilus whispered. "You're always so soft."

Pierre groaned, banging his head against the door. "That's not soft," he gritted out.

"You know what I mean, Peri," Nilus said, kissing his cheek.

Pierre saw the torches before Nilus did. He pushed the boy away, but Nilus took it as foreplay. "Get off me," he hissed, but it was already too late. Claudius took up much of the doorway.

Pierre and Nilus broke apart guiltily, readjusting their clothing. Pierre backed away and kept his back to the wall. His cheeks flushed when Claudius didn’t look away from him. He reached the edge of light cast by Claudius' torch and bolted. He ran straight home. The tightness in his stomach didn't leave him until the next day. He'd been lusted after before, that wasn't the problem. No one had looked at him so...hungrily before.

The next day Nilus complained of a stomachache. Pierre thought he was being partly punished for leaving him in the doorway with Claudius, but he didn't want to ask. He went to the baths alone, not waiting for Nilus to be over whatever was bothering him. Pierre undressed quickly, storing his clothes in the empty room, and didn't think anything as the first man entered the bath.

It wasn't until the second man joined him that Pierre recognized him as one of Claudius' men. He bolted for the door, and barely stopped in time to keep from running into Claudius himself. He backed into a corner, knowing there was nowhere to go. "Take him," Claudius ordered.

Pierre fought. He managed to break the nose of one of them, but the other two pummeled him with their fists until he couldn't breathe. He had been caught over his eye, and the blood ran down, almost blinding him. He stopped fighting only when his body was too hurt to obey him.

He felt his legs being spread. He started screaming, but a hand came down and closed over his mouth and mouth. He tried kicking, but it only used his air up sooner. Just as he was about to pass out, the hand moved, letting him breathe through his nose.

"Spread them," Claudius ordered. Pierre felt his legs being pulled apart again. He almost started begging to be let go, but then Claudius ran his hands up Pierre's thighs. Claudius poked at his cock, hard enough to bring tears to Pierre’s eyes, and then ran his thumb over the head. The man's dry skin rubbed against him, and Pierre turned away. He smelled the chicken grease. The cock, twice as thick as Nilus' forced its way inside him. "At least you're broken in, I'll give you that. You've pleased Roman cocks before, little Jew."

Pierre couldn't fight the hands on him, but he didn't stop trying. He couldn't breathe, even with his nose free. He started hyperventilating, and felt Claudius' clammy hand over the back of his neck. "Fight me, slut, let me feel you."

He should have lay still for it, but he couldn't force himself. Claudius came inside him, then left him, bleeding on the tiles. Pierre lay still until he knew there was no serious damage done; Claudius had greased himself and Pierre was no virgin, but his body ached from the violation and the beating.

He cleaned the blood off the floor himself, and stayed away for three days. He didn't want anyone to know of the attack, but he was deluding himself. When he returned to ' home from the market on the fourth day he found out Claudius had charged him with assault for breaking his man's nose.

Claudius offered his adoptive parents more money than they'd ever seen before. He found out later, of course. Had he known his parents were going to sell him to the fat bastard he never would have stayed for it. But he hadn't, and the first he knew of it was Claudius knocking on the door, demanding his property.

Pierre pushed back, and Jonathan let him go. "I had a master once," Pierre

said.

Jonathan watched him, cocking his head. "Not Adam," Pierre said. "And not for any game. A man...owned me."

Jonathan nodded. He slipped off his heels so that he was sitting on his butt and then brought his knees up so he could hug them. Pierre moved to the window. "He wasn't a...very nice man. He kept me tethered to his couch. When he wanted me he used to pull me in, slowly. I fought, but the chain kept getting shorter and shorter. I fought him, little slave. You wouldn't know how hard."

Jonathan stood up and went to him, but Pierre pushed him away hard enough to make the boy stumble. "And you lose yourself in your games. What is it? Does the pain quiet the hurt in your life? Do you crave the pain blocking everything else out?"

Jonathan kept back out of arm reach. He shook his head. "No, master."

"What, then?" he demanded.

Jonathan chewed his lip. "I--I lied to you, master"

Pierre turned to him. "What?" he asked. Jonathan went to kneel, but Pierre

reached out and caught his chin. "No."

"I told you I didn't know what it was like to be...raped. To be hurt."

Pierre nodded. Jonathan kept staring at the carpet. He swallowed, and Pierre felt the boy's throat muscle work over his hand. "I..." the boy began, and then sighed. "My first master..." the boy began, and then subconsciously reached up and touched his nipple rings. "My old master took me off the streets."

Pierre let the boy go. He looked like he had lost five years. The boy looked up, eyes wide. "I thought it would be better," he said.

Pierre nodded, not wanting to interrupt the boy. Jonathan sighed again, which shook his entire body. "My mom loved me, but she was crazy," he looked up. "I'm not just saying that. She wasn't right in the head. She... she was in a concentration camp -- Tereisinstadt -- it was where they put children. She spent her childhood there -- five years. She used to think...if a loud truck went by in the street or an airplane, she thought it was a war plane. She would dive under the kitchen table, grabbing me. We would have to stay there for an hour while she sang me crazy Polish songs."

Jonathan shook his head, shaking tears out of his lashes. Pierre took his hand off Jonathan's chin and backed off.

"I was a baby when she found me. She couldn't have children. She thought I was a gift from God. That's why she named me Jonathan -- it means, ‘God gave’ in Hebrew."

"I know," Pierre said, under his breath. Jonathan was too absorbed in his story to notice.

"Her husband took off 'cause she took me in," Jonathan continued. "He was a camp survivor, too. I think he liked her because she was pretty, but with a crying baby there..." Jonathan shrugged. "Later, when I was on the street, I thought I was meant to be there, because she found me on the street.

"We moved around a lot, made me always the new guy. The short skinny new guy

without even glasses to protect him. I was a punching bag in school more times than I wasn't," Jonathan laughed. "I was gonna ask you if you've ever been beaten up before. After a while...it doesn't hurt. I mean yeah, it hurts, but you know it's not going to last forever. It's more important how you take the beatings than how you fight back. It's one thing to get the shit kicked out of you, and something else entirely to piss yourself. Take it like a man, right?" Jonathan laughed and glanced down at his hands. They still had the puppy-size to them. Jonathan had good, strong hands. They'd hold a sword easily, Pierre noticed.

"Eventually they would all stop 'cause it just wasn't worth it. They couldn't make me cry or beg, and I just...took it. They mostly forgot about me and moved on to guys who would squeal like a pig. It wasn't much of an acceptance, but when your mom spent three hours a day dusting the coffee table it was better than nothing."

Pierre nodded, slowly. Jonathan didn't see it.

"Then she met the Asshole. I guess she thought it was someone she could play house with, but he was a fucking bastard. He beat her. I heard them at night. He didn't fuck, he rutted. She wouldn't stop crying through it. I used to lie there in bed with my pillow over my ears, trying to pretend I could hear, but that never worked." Jonathan opened his palm. There was enough light coming through the window that Pierre could see the barely visible semi-crescent scars up and down his palm. "So I'd make a fist. See how much pain I could take before I'd have to stop. It was a distraction. It worked."

Pierre took Jonathan's hand and traced out the thin lines. Jonathan closed his eyes, but continued. "I used to ask her to kick the Asshole out, but she kept insisting nothing was wrong. Then I even thought, you know, she can't survive alone, and I can't stay here forever, and the guy puts food on the table, you know?"

Jonathan paused to take a ragged breath. Pierre watched him forcibly calm his breathing. He continued, looking up at Pierre, then down again. "Then he started knocking me around. I mean, no big deal, right? Most guys I knew had taken rounds out of me, so what the hell, right? I knew enough to stay the fuck down when he hit me; it wasn't like the schoolyard. Mom went ballistic when she found out, but she didn't leave him. She was totally apologetic. She kept on saying if he did it again we'd be gone, but he kept doing it and we kept staying. I loved her, I really did, but...she...so I got out of there. I think in her weird way she thought we could be a family." Jonathan looked up at Pierre, a bewildered look in his eye.

Pierre nodded. Jonathan moved into his space. Pierre rested his arms on the boy's shoulder. "I hadn't realized it'd be so cold. And my feet hurt all the time. Did you know how much your feet hurt?"

Pierre shook his head. "So I walked for days. I...panhandled. Didn't make enough for a hamburger. I thought I'd starve. My feet hurt and I was cold and I was hungry and this guy offered to buy me supper. I went with him. He took me to a pancake house. I had blueberry pancakes. I hated blueberries, but I didn't want to ruin something I actually liked. I sucked him off in his car. Blueberries and come. I almost threw up. But it was twenty bucks. The next night it was fifty, and I let him fuck me. That hurt."

"When did the pain start?"

Jonathan shook his head. "I got sloppy. I started taking pills. I let a van pick me up...they didn't care. I screamed...I begged...begging never helps. They didn't stop. I didn't even know how many of them there were. A...man found me up. He was...different than the rest. He took me in. He took care of me. I thought he wanted to have sex with me. I didn't know he..."

Pierre ran his fingers down Jonathan's back. "He chained me to my bed once I was recovered enough. The links were so cold, and his mouth was so warm. I had jerked off before, but nothing was that good. I lay there, completely caught, and he brought me off." Jonathan took the extra step closer to him. "The pain came later," he whispered, harshly.

"Coffee," he announced as he took the boy's arm.

Jonathan stared at him, but then shook his head. "Yes master."

"Not now," Pierre said, but Jonathan's eyes were wide. Pierre stopped moving in the kitchen, and Jonathan jumped to take over. The boy still needed his boundaries. Jonathan brought back Pierre's cup with his own, and sat down on the table. Pierre shared a danish with his slave.

***********

Pierre unlocked the door, and saw Jonathan just finishing his dusting. "Don't go through my stuff again," Pierre asked, putting the groceries he had bought down on the counters.

"They fit, Master," Jonathan said. He wore Pierre's matching studded cuffs and collar. A single chain lay low on the boy's hips.

"And your clothes?" Pierre asked.

Jonathan bent over again to dust the bottom level of the coffee table. "They were dirty, Master."

Pierre moved up behind him. "Do you know what happens to slaves who tease their masters?"

Jonathan broke into a smile. "Something painful, Master?" he asked.

"I guess that depends how bad the slave was."

Jonathan reached over and knocked the vase off the coffee table. It fell onto the plush carpet but didn't break. "Oops."

Jonathan grabbed the chain, holding it as Jonathan stepped away. Pierre stepped up to him and smelled the boy's arousal. "What do you want?" Pierre asked, kissing his way down Jonathan's neck. He bit down harder than he normally would, but every pinch of his teeth sent the boy groaning.

"Master," Jonathan managed and tried to hold onto Pierre.

"Hum?" Pierre asked. He brought his thumbs down the boy's back, raking his nails down just enough to raise the skin. The boy shuddered. He brought the boy back to the sofa, and sat down with the boy across his lap.

"You're right, of course," Pierre whispered.

"I am?" the boy asked, confused.

"This absolutely won't do," Pierre continued.

"Master?"

Pierre stood up, dumping the boy to the ground. "You need new clothes. Put something of mine on and let's go."

Ten minutes later, Pierre had a grumpy slave dressed in baggy clothing. Pierre's blue University of Minnesota sweat-shirt hung off him, and the boy pushed up the sleeves past his elbow. "People will think me American."

"And that dour look on your face will do nothing to convince them otherwise. Smile. That's an order."

Jonathan pulled his lips back, but there was no way he'd call that a smile. "Close enough," Pierre said, and grabbed the boy's wrist. "Be a good boy and I'll punish you tonight."

Jonathan switched back into his role. "Promise, Master?" he asked with a genuine brilliant smile.

"If you're good," Pierre repeated.

Jonathan was almost fun to shop for. The boy had eclectic taste, and even popped into a pet store to try on leather collars. Pierre let him, feeling amused, and watched as the boy idly ran his fingers down the chain leashes. The boy sighed, and his stiff new jeans grew a little stiffer. Pierre moved up behind him and bought four.

They finished the night with five shopping bags. Pierre left him by the wall to buy them a couple of water bottles from a vendor. He turned his back on the boy for less than a minute, and when he turned around again, Jonathan was surrounded by a group of punks.

The boy carried around on him a multi-languaged kick-me sign. He did nothing to defend himself, which made the bullies more bold. The boy would never make it as an Immortal if his only defense was to roll himself up and take it.

Pierre grabbed the ringleader and threw him against the brick wall hard enough to stun the kid. The rest took off, dragging their leader behind them. Pierre grabbed the bags angrily, and Jonathan had to trot up to catch him.

They took a cab ride home, but Pierre didn't speak to Jonathan the entire ride. By the time they got back to his apartment, Jonathan was shaking. Pierre unlocked the door and went straight to the bedroom. He threw the bags on the floor.

"What?" Jonathan finally asked. He stood on the doorway.

"Do you really want to die?" Pierre demanded.

"No Master," Jonathan said. "But they weren't going to--"

"Enough. You are going to learn how to fight."

Jonathan glanced down, and then looked up at him with his eyelashes. "Wouldn't you rather..." he began, taking a step forward. Jonathan's body language shifted completely. He put a hand on his hip, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Master?"

"You are going to learn to fight."

"Why?" the boy exploded. "I'm a toy, not a fighter. I'm not worth it, Master."

Pierre stood up. "This isn't up for a debate," he said.

Jonathan stepped up to him as well. The boy was shorter than he was, but not by much. Jonathan's erection caught him just above his. "Are you sure there isn’t something you'd rather do to this body than just teach it?" he asked, and actually tried to bat his eyelashes at Pierre. Pierre caught his wrists, and the boy took the opportunity to step into his space and grind against him.

"Would you like to spend the night against the wall again?" Pierre asked.

Jonathan shook his head. "No, Master," he whispered. His body language changed again. He bowed his head, and the coltish behaviour stopped. "I don't understand you," he said.

"What?" Pierre asked.

"Those punks were just punks. They couldn't have hurt me."

"Bruises are still bruises."

"I would have healed!" Jonathan protested.

"You would have let them beat you for that dumb-assed excuse?"

"And if I fought back? One of them might have killed me."

"They might have killed you anyway!"

Jonathan stopped and looked at him. "Who would the beating have hurt more, Master?" Jonathan asked, quietly. "Me or you?"

Pierre's next sentence died in his throat.

"I'm not you, Master." Jonathan whispered.

"You are learning to fight, slave."

Jonathan stood up and went to the wall, kneeling down in front of it. Pierre cursed him, but the boy didn't move from where he knelt. Pierre slammed the door behind him.

Methos answered the door wearing only his boxers. "It's midnight."

"I don't care. Beer."

"That's my line."

"Yeah? Well I'm taking it. Bring me a fucking beer."

"One beer, coming up," Methos said. He brought Pierre a bottle, and Pierre drained it off. "What did he do now?"

"He let punks roll him for quarters," Pierre snapped. "It's like he sticks his head in the sand and totally gives up."

"Yeah, so?" Methos asked.

Pierre slammed the bottle down. "What do you mean, yeah, so?" he demanded.

"Which bothers you more, that he's a masochist or a pacifist?"

"That has nothing to do with it! But even if it did, you know what happens with pacifist Immortals," Pierre growled, and then held his arms out and jerked around, imitating a quickening.

"Pierre, you are supposed to teach him."

Pierre took a step forward. Methos met him in the middle of the room. "Get out of my way," Pierre snarled.

"No."

"Fuck you," he snapped.

Methos nodded. "All right then."

It was an invitation. Pierre grabbed him, threw him against the wall, and kissed him. Methos ran his fingers down Pierre's back. It had been too long since the last time he and Methos had had sex. Methos met him equally, forcing him back. They broke apart from the kiss, still panting, and stared at each other long enough to realize that this is what they both wanted.

They shed their clothes, and the battle began again. Pierre won, surprising the hell out of both of them. He thought he would have liked to have Methos over him, but driving himself into the unprotesting body face down under him was just as good. He grabbed onto Methos' hair, but the short hair didn't give him much of a purchase and he gripped onto Methos' shoulder instead. He pulled Methos up on his knees, forcing himself deeper. It was so good to lash out and have his blows met rather than passively accepted. But even as he drove himself inside, he realized that his name wasn't on his friend's lips. The thought made him falter, but he couldn't stop. Guilt stabbed at him, but Jonathan wasn't much out of his thoughts, either.

Methos let go with a slight sigh, and the internal convulsing on Pierre’s cock was too much. He collapsed over Methos to catch his breath. "Feeling better?" Methos asked, pushing to his feet.

"When are you going to stop fucking me by proxy?" Pierre asked and rolled on to his back. He stayed down for another heartbeat and then started to get dressed.

"Pierre." Methos began.

"Don't call me that," Pierre said. His skin was suddenly itchy.

"Peri, then. Does he bother you that much?"

"Well."

"Well, what?" Pierre snapped.

"You're finally dealing with it."

Pierre sat down. "Oh, please," he growled.

"Please what?"

"I'm two thousand years old, Adam. You think I've survived this long without 'dealing with it?'"

"So what's your problem?"

Pierre gave him a dirty look, but didn't say anything.

Methos tried again. "What?"

"I think I might love him."

Methos smiled and touched Pierre on the cheek. "He gets to you, doesn't he?"

They both felt the warning. "Oh, shit!" Methos snapped.

Pierre dove for his blade, but Methos grabbed his arm. "No, don't. It's my friend. You have to leave."

"Methos--"

"I'll explain everything later. You really have to leave. Not that way!" Methos grabbed his arm. Pierre stopped. The last time he checked, there was only way out of the apartment.

Methos pushed him out, ignoring his protests. It wasn't that Pierre was particularly afraid of heights, but it was a long way down. "I owe you," Methos said, and kissed him on his forehead. Pierre tried to catch his arm, but Methos was already gone. As he was lowered himself off the balcony, he could still hear Methos' voice. "Who was what, Mac? You're paranoid."

Methos was a dead man. Pierre stalked his way back home. He chose to walk rather than take a cab, just to give himself time to cool off.

Jonathan hadn't moved from the wall. It would have been better if he had. Pierre would have been able to justify himself if Jonathan had broken from his role. "I thought you weren't coming back," Jonathan said.

Pierre took out his sword. Jonathan must have heard it scraping against the scabbard. His breathing changed, sounding shallower. "Take it," Pierre ordered, offering the hilt.

"No," Jonathan said. His shoulders started to shake, but the boy controlled his breathing, making it slow and even. Jonathan bowed his head further.

"This is your last chance, Jonathan. I am not going to let anyone else take your head." Pierre put his blade on the boy's neck. "Do not try me."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Master," Jonathan said. His breath caught.

Pierre broke away. "Stand up. You're not going to die on your knees," he growled.

"Are you afraid I might enjoy it too much?" Jonathan painfully pushed to his feet. His legs trembled, but he didn't turn around. Pierre pushed him into the wall, and pinned him there with his body.

"You fucking little idiot. What makes you think you are going to survive your first fight? Do you want to die? Do you think playing dead will save you, or do you want the pain?" Pierre asked, and then bit Jonathan on the neck, hard enough to tear the skin. The blood welled and ran down. Jonathan cried out, but Pierre rammed him against the wall again. "I hate to disappoint you, but it will only hurt for an instant."

He began grinding his hips against the boy's ass. "Or do you think you can just sell your ass to get out of it?" he asked. "You're good, boy, but you're not that good. Nothing compares to taking a head. Nothing."

Pierre brought his blade up again, lifting the boy's chin with the tip. "Take it," he whispered, grinding harder. The boy's breathing was ragged and harsh. He stared down at the blade, wincing as the tip dug into his chin. "Take it," Pierre repeated, and then worked his tongue over the delicate spot behind his ear.

Pierre reached out. For a moment Pierre let the boy's warm hand touch his, and then he pulled away. Jonathan stepped back from the wall and stared at the blade. He looked like he was in a trance. Pierre watched, unbelievingly, as Jonathan slowly, almost ritualistically held his wrist over the blade and then slowly drew it across. He didn't cut very deeply, but he dropped the blade to cup the blood, yelling in sudden pain. "It hurts!" he said, looking up at Pierre in surprise, and wide awake.

Pierre laughed warmly, grabbing the boy’s wrist. Jonathan was going to be okay. "Look," he said. "It’s healing already."

Jonathan watched as his wrist slowly healed over. "Teach me," he said, looking up at Pierre.

"Come, let’s clean you off," Pierre said, nodding.

********************

"Ouch!" Jonathan howled the next day.

"I thought you liked pain," Pierre taunted. Jonathan picked himself off the floor and rubbed his tail-bone.

"I did, the first dozen times. It got old," he grumbled.

"Again," Pierre said.

Jonathan came at him, but the boy was as hesitant as he was sloppy. Pierre swept the boy's feet out from under him.

"Merde!" Jonathan snapped as he threw his blade away. It skittered across the floor. "I can't do this!"

Pierre poked the boy's chest with his blade. "Then you die."

They both felt the warning at the same time. Jonathan's entire body language changed. He smiled and cocked his head to one side. "He'd never waste this body on a sword."

Pierre shook his head and stabbed the boy through the heart. The body fell to the floor.

"Drastic measures, wouldn't you say?" Methos asked.

Pierre turned around. "You're next."

"Me? What did I do?" Methos demanded. "Well, besides that. Can't you take a joke?"

Pierre didn't buy the innocent act and told him so.

Methos shook his head. "What did the boy do?" he asked.

"He's not getting it," Pierre snapped.

"Not everyone takes to swordfighting as quickly as you did, Peri. Slow it down."

Pierre looked at the body. "Who was he?" he asked.

"Duncan MacLeod. The Him. I forgot he was coming over."

"And did he?"

"Did he what?"

"Come over."

Methos almost flushed. "You're in no position to judge."

"So, that's it, then."

"I guess it is."

"Good luck doesn't seem quite appropriate. How about...I hope this one doesn't burn you as badly as Byron did."

"Peri--"

"Methos, just go."

Methos left. Jonathan started to cough as Pierre went to him. "Hurts, doesn't it?" he asked.

Jonathan touched his chest. "What did you do?" he asked, harshly.

"I killed you. Are you ready to get serious?"

"That hurt," Jonathan said.

"Well, of course it did."

Jonathan touched his chest. "That really hurt," he said, and his voice was full of wonderment. He pushed himself to his feet, and picked up his sword.

*******

Pierre felt the warning as he rinsed the shampoo out of his hair. He grabbed his sweats, taking an extra second to pull them on, and then he grabbed the spare sword he kept in the bathroom. He kept them all over the apartment, just in case. Jonathan had already answered the door, but by the look on his face, he was horrified. A big man took up most of the doorway. He was big and thick, huge without being fat, and he had a cruel twist to his mouth. Jonathan stepped back, shaking his head.

"Jonathan," Pierre said. The boy looked as though he was back in his trance. "Jonathan!"

"Stealing my property again, Shane?"

His club name. Pierre recognized him now. He was one of the associate members who had use of the public rooms. He wasn't allowed in the private sections. He had been a member up until last spring when he had disregarded a safe word from another member. Pierre had been one of the masters summoned to save the sub. Gregor usually used one of the cheap, gaudy black leather masks available from only the lowest sex-shops. There were softer, grey masks for members, but he liked the zippered mouth one.

He couldn't have come at a worse time. Jonathan was still exhausted from his first day of sword lessons and he was probably feeling as vulnerable as he looked. Gregor snapped his fingers and Jonathan took a step forward. Pierre grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back. "Stay away from him."

"He's mine. He'll always be mine. You can't have him. Tell him, slave."

Jonathan opened his mouth to speak, but cringed instead. It hurt to see the boy revert so instantly to what he was before. "Jonathan-" Pierre began. Jonathan shook his head at him, sadly, and went to take a step forward.

His body crumbled. Pierre pulled his blade free and immediately lowered him down to the ground, holding his hand over the wound to keep it from hurting too much when he revived. "Get out before I kill you," he growled.

"Afraid of who he might choose, Shane?"

"Afraid that if I leave him he'll wake up alone. Get the fuck out!"

Gregor left them.

************

Jonathan came out of the bedroom, but Pierre didn't glance up. He had cleaned the boy up and left him to sleep after the re-awakening. The boy stopped and stared, his hair tousled with sleep, watching Pierre running the honing sword up and down the length of his blade. Pierre had always taken pleasure in sharpening his sword; there was something zen-like its tranquility.

Jonathan wasn't going to talk to him, and Pierre didn't force it. He let the boy watch from the archway, and almost startled when the boy came and knelt down in front of him--but the way the boy looked at him discouraged any conversation. Jonathan's face was cold, shut off. He got onto his hands and knees for a second. Pierre almost jerked back; the boy's chin was almost in his lap, but he was just groping for the sword Pierre kept under the sofa. There was no telling when he might need it, or the katana in the

bathroom, or the broadsword in the pantry. Pierre might be paranoid, but he was a well armed one.

"I used to do this for my old master," Jonathan said, staring at the blade in front of him. "Only he made me do it naked in front of him. He watched me, waiting for a mistake. I cut myself once. I bled, here," Jonathan pointed to his upper thigh. "I have a scar there. Master...thought I was clumsy. He..." Jonathan looked up. He took Pierre's blade, gripping it like a dangerous snake, and let it fall onto his shoulder. Pierre stood up, but only so that he'd be able to yank the sword away if the boy tried anything.

Jonathan smiled at him, a pure, soft smile that cut into Pierre. "Have you ever been cut, sir?"

"Jonathan, you don't have to do this," Pierre said.

"Don't I?" Jonathan's eyes narrowed. "And if I continue, will you send me to the wall again?" he asked. He gripped onto the blade.

"Let go of that," Pierre said, quietly.

"Or what?" Jonathan asked.

"Jonathan, please."

Jonathan jerked his hand back, and stared at the four small bleeding cuts on each of his fingers and the long red line on his palm. He winced, curling his fist up. "Hurts, doesn't it," Pierre asked, putting his own hand over the boy's clenched fist.

Jonathan looked up at him, offering him his hand, and Pierre brought it to his lips. "Off with this," he whispered, tugging on Jonathan's T-shirt.

The boy did have fine silver lines crossing his throat, neck and chest. Pierre knelt in front of the boy, his knee between Jonathan's thighs, and ran his fingers over the most obvious thin line. "What's that from?" Pierre asked, quietly.

"His sword, the first time he made me do it."

"Made you do what?" Pierre asked, keeping his voice uninvolved, but his stomach turned.

"Cut myself. For bleeding on his blade. I pulled my neck back, and the blade split my skin."

Pierre nodded, and then bent forward and ran his tongue across the scar. He kissed it, trailing his fingers down to the next cluster, on the boy's back. "This?" he asked.

"Whippings," Jonathan said. "Master was annoyed with me and used his buckle."

"What did you do?" Pierre asked.

Jonathan smiled. He closed his eyes, still in his dream-like state. "I asked him to stop hitting me. I thought I could take it. I thought I could handle it, sir. It was just with a belt, but he kept at it, forever. I finally begged him to stop it."

"Did he?" Pierre asked, and stopped running his tongue over them for a minute.

"Then," Jonathan said. "But he acted so...hurt and disappointed that I would fail him like that I just...fetched his belt and scraped my hair off my shoulders. He whaled on me for hours, but I took it."

There was grim satisfaction in Jonathan's voice; Pierre heard it clear. "I never asked him to stop after that. No matter what he did to me."

Pierre kissed it better and moved down. Cigarette burns, floggings, knife cuts--the boy's body had it all. He related each story with grim satisfaction; they hadn't broken him, regardless of what they did. Jonathan was proud of taking the pain, accepting it, and asking for more. Only when Pierre touched him with his fingertips and whispers did the boy actually whimper and shudder.

"Blond," Pierre whispered in his ear.

"What?" Jonathan asked.

"Your hair was long and blond back then."

"He liked it that way. When he dumped me, I cut it. Too many men wanted to come in it," Jonathan said, and then shook his head. "How did you know?"

"At the club. I...I felt you. You hadn't died yet, it wasn't my place to interfere. Gregor killed you, didn’t he?"

Jonathan nodded, swallowing. "I’m not even sure which time," he said. "There were so many times I thought I was going to die...I have asthma...had...and he liked to cut off my air..."

Pierre lay back down against the shag carpet, and pulled Jonathan over him and holding him close. "Had I known I would have killed the bastard myself," he whispered.

Jonathan shifted against him, unsure, but then Pierre spread his knees and Jonathan dropped right into place. The boy gasped, feeling their cocks rub together for the first time. "New game," Pierre said. "Come with me, Jonathan, please."

It didn't take long for Jonathan to figure this one out. He began moving against Pierre, starting out with insecure little jabs, but then found a natural rhythm. The boy began panting, his hot breath blasting Pierre's cheek, and Pierre wrapped his legs around the boy's hips. "Come on," he urged. "There's a boy."

Jonathan was past listening to him. Tiny sounds escaped him as the boy madly rubbed against him. Jonathan collapsed on top of him, shuddering, and the feeling of Jonathan jumping against his denim made Pierre come. Hot and sticky, but a very promising start.

Jonathan lifted himself up to his elbows. "That was..." he said, unable to finish.

Pierre kissed the tip of his nose, loving the debauched flush of the boy's cheeks. "That was a beginning," he said. "It gets better."

***********

Chapter 3: Promises, or, Chains of love

Pierre woke up alone in the bedroom, but heard Jonathan grunting in the main

room. Pierre stood up and saw the two rings sitting on the bedside table. He picked them up and went into the next room.

Jonathan didn't look up from his practice. "Forget something?" Pierre asked.

The boy looked at him. "I took them out."

"Why?"

"Why keep them in?" Jonathan asked. He went back to his work-out. He had added push-ups and sit-ups to Pierre’s sword warm-up regime.

Pierre had a shower.

The next day was like that, and the day after that, too. For a week, Jonathan struggled to learn what Pierre taught him during the day and at night he fell right to sleep the moment he went to bed. In the morning, he got up early and did calisthenics in the main room, adding more and pushing harder each day. Pierre let him, giving the time the boy needed to adjust, but it was really starting to bother him.

"Jonathan, think! Did you see me going for your right-hand side?" Pierre snapped, exasperated.

Jonathan pulled away. "No," he said, sounding mulish again.

Pierre stalked him across the warehouse floor. "Why didn't you?"

"I'm tired and my arm's sore."

Pierre lifted Jonathan's chin up with the tip of his sword. Jonathan trusted him enough to let him. "The bad guy won't care."

"Why should I?" Jonathan said, batting the blade away from his throat.

Pierre stepped into the boy's space, plucked the sword from his hand, and knocked him on his ass. Jonathan fell, old instincts kicked in, and Jonathan stopped fighting him. He passively accepted the sword to his throat and even tilted his head back.

"Do you?" he asked.

Jonathan went to shake his head, and obviously thought better of it. "Yes," he whispered. "Sir."

"Then pick up your sword."

Jonathan rubbed his neck as he picked up his sword. Pierre didn't even give him a chance to get in the ready position before he stepped past Jonathan, snatched the sword out of his hand, and beat him with the flat of the sword on his ass.

Jonathan jumped, startled. Pierre had meant it to hurt, and the boy tried to rub sting out. "Again," he ordered.

Jonathan snapped into the right position, but there was too much weight on his forward foot. Pierre swept the foot out from under him, and Jonathan fell crashing to the floor. "Again!"

Jonathan was slower getting up, but before he was off his knees he attacked Pierre. Pierre knocked the sword out of his hand and reached over. One hand gripped Jonathan's hair, the second flicked the blade near the boy's ear. A lock of the boy's curls fell to the floor. Jonathan looked up, outraged.

"Come on, pretty boy, you have lots of curls left. Or are you enjoying getting your ass whipped?"

Jonathan attacked him, seriously this time. Pierre just back stepped, and the boy slammed against the wall. Pierre trapped him there with his body. "You're getting it," He whispered into the boy's hair. He pulled away again. "Again!"

Jonathan toed the hilt to his hand and launched himself at Pierre. Pierre stepped aside again. Jonathan's centre of gravity was off and Pierre just slapped him down and stepped on the small of his back. He slapped the boy's ass with his bare hand and stepped over him. "Again!"

Jonathan left his sword on the ground and came at him. The boy's compact weight caught him off-guard and he fell backwards, but he easily flipped the boy onto his back. "Good!"

Jonathan struggled underneath him. "Get off me!" he howled.

Pierre thrust against him. The boy's weight struggling under him moved against his cock, and he was instantly hard. Jonathan knocked him off and rolled over for his sword, and Pierre to scramble for his. Jonathan attacked him. His attack was awkward and clumsy, but it was vicious at the same time. Jonathan fought with a randomness that kept him on his toes to keep from getting hurt.

Jonathan finally collapsed, and Pierre took the sword from his hands. Jonathan looked up. "I told you I couldn't do it," he said. His shoulders were shaking.

Pierre put his hands on the boy's shoulder. "Jonathan," he said, keeping his voice sharp.

Jonathan looked up, but didn't answer.

"You're a good sub. That takes discipline. Use that same discipline now."

"It's not the same," Jonathan said, but Pierre hushed him.

"It is the same. Stand up."

With a single-mindedness that impressed Pierre, Jonathan pushed to his feet. The trembling in the boy's body ended, and he gripped the sword. "Again. Deliberate now, Jonathan. Watch me. Anticipate me. You're good at that."

Jonathan met his first blow. Pierre had slowed it down, but the boy's face was grim. He met the second one, and moved the sword to protect his body. Pierre sped it up, never going normal speed, but fast enough that the boy responded. It was enough for the day. Pierre broke off. "That's enough. Never fight tired if you can avoid it."

Jonathan dropped the tip of his sword and nodded.

********

The boy was half asleep over supper that night. "Phantom pain," Pierre said.

"What?" Jonathan asked.

"It's when you know by every right your body should hurt like hell for a very long time, and it doesn't. You're knees and shoulders hurt out of sympathy."

Jonathan nodded.

"I'll clean up," Pierre said. "You get some sleep."

"But--" Jonathan said, but bowed his head again. "Yes, sir," he said. He stood up and went to bed.

When Pierre entered the room, he found Jonathan sleeping curled up on the bed. He was obviously exhausted, oblivious to the world. Pierre worked quickly. The boy didn't wake as Pierre secured his ankles first, and then slowly pulled his wrists to their bindings on the headboard.

Pierre had changed into his doeskin leather pants. They caressed his skin as he moved, and he wore nothing else but a ribbon of silk lashed to his upper arm. He used it occasionally on errant slaves who needed the challenge of not breaking free. Jonathan tested the bonds, still asleep, and sighed, relaxing against the ties. It was the first time he'd seen Jonathan smile since training started.

He struck a match and lit the single candle. The sulfur stung his nose for a second, and then the warm scent of lemongrass and pine filled the room. The scent of the club, along with leather and skin. He blew out the match and watched the smoke curl up to the ceiling fan.

Jonathan twitched, his eyebrows almost touching, and he woke in mid-panic. He thrashed against the bonds. Pierre moved to him and rubbed the boy's belly. "Hush now," he whispered. "You're safe with me, slave."

Jonathan calmed, but it was cagey. "Master?" he asked. There were several questions in that one word.

Pierre nodded, touching boy's lips. "It's all right, little warrior. You can let yourself go once in a while. Relax, I'll take care of you."

""I don't understand... I thought..."

"All work and no play makes Jonathan a very dull Immortal," Pierre teased,

tweaking Jonathan's nose playfully. "You thought if you were training, you had to give up the pleasure. It’s alright to put the sword down, Jonathan, so long as you know when to pick it up again. You've been training very hard. Now, let it go." The last was a command.

Jonathan rested his head against the bed. "Thank you, Master," he said, voice thick. Pierre reached under the bed and took out the blindfold and gag. Jonathan stared at them, and then up to him. "Thank you."

Pierre showed him the knife. "May I?" he asked.

The boy nodded. Pierre pulled on the neckline of the boy's chest. He splayed his fingers, careful to keep the blade off Jonathan's skin. Jonathan strained against him, but Pierre pushed him down. "No," he whispered. "Do you want me to stop?"

Jonathan shook his head and lay back down. "Very good," he whispered. "You are very beautiful, Jonathan. Has anyone ever told you that?"

Jonathan shook his head. "You are, my little warrior." The boy's heat radiated from him, and the blade was cold next to it. Pierre worked the blade down the boy's chest, and it sliced open Jonathan's sweater easily. Pierre kissed the exposed skin as the blade revealed it. Jonathan whimpered, and Pierre smiled into the boy's skin. "You don't want me to hurry this, Jonathan," he whispered.

Jonathan's body temperature warmed the blade. The room was silent but for the sound of the cloth ripping. It sounded more like a sigh than anything. He worked over the boy's biceps, letting the blade touch Jonathan's skin for the first time. Jonathan yelped, but carefully didn't move.

"That didn't hurt, did it?" he asked. He ran his teeth over the area the knife had passed over. He deliberately caught the boy's skin, biting down enough just enough to give the promise of pain, and then licked off the salt. He repositioned himself so that he straddled the boy's lower belly, and felt Jonathan's shudder as the doeskin touched over the boy's belly. Jonathan paused for a second, enjoying the feeling of the boy under him with only a soft layer of leather between him and the boy.

Pierre closed his eyes, but this wasn't about him. He moved so the boy wasn't in direct contact, and smiled and the growl of frustration from Jonathan. "I'll have to gag you," he said, letting his voice sound disapproving. Jonathan's breath caught.

Pierre started with the wrist band of the last sleeve, carefully slicing his way up. He cut through it, and tugged on the tattered remains. "Up," he ordered.

Jonathan moaned as his bare back touched the bedcover for the first time. Pierre knelt between the boy's spread legs and ran his fingers through the light dusting of body hair over the boy's chest. "Very nice," he said. He plucked a single hair out, and the boy winced, but strained again to offer Pierre more. "Mine."

"Yes, Master," Jonathan whispered. He closed his eyes and smiled his calm smile.

The pants followed. Pierre started at the pant-leg, and let the knife scrape the skin on the way up. He moved quickly, but again used his hand to make sure the boy wouldn't be hurt. He sliced open the cloth on Jonathan's inner thigh, and heard the boy hiss in pleasure. He left it unfinished on the last of the inseam, and went back to do the other leg. Instead of cutting off the last little bit, he ripped it off and threw it over his shoulder.

Jonathan smiled, and tilted his head back, exposing it to be used. Pierre smiled and then reached over the edge of the bed and pulled out the blindfold and the gag. He lowered the blindfold over Jonathan's eyes and then touched the boy's lips. Jonathan opened his mouth willingly. Pierre slid the gag in, and made sure it was comfortable before locking it in place. Jonathan relaxed completely. His breathing slowed to a constant rise and fall of his ribcage. "Do you trust me?" he asked, softly.

Jonathan nodded instantly. He swallowed, but kept his head back. "I will be right back, Jonathan. I am not abandoning you. Nod if you understand."

Jonathan nodded.

Pierre kissed the boy's throat, and left him there.

Pierre touched the rabbit fur to the base of the boy's throat, and felt the shudder cross his body. Jonathan strained against the bonds, offering himself more to Pierre, but Pierre only brushed a line down to the boy's chest using the very edge of the fur. He lifted the fur off Jonathan's skin, and then waited a dozen heartbeats before stroking it over the boy's nipple.

The boy must have screamed fairly loudly for the muffled grunt to escape. "Relax, little one, or this is going to be a very short evening. Deep breaths, Jonathan. Do you want me to stop?"

The furious shaking of his head was an obvious no. Pierre ran the fur heavily to the other nipple, but then only tickled the nub. Jonathan strained against the bonds, lifting himself almost off the bed, but Pierre laughed and then twisted the nipple. Not hard enough to actually do damage, but the muffled scream escaped the gag again.

"That wasn't very nice of me. I'm sorry, Jonathan," Pierre said. To make up for the sudden pain, Pierre stroked the length of the boy's chest with the soft fur. If Jonathan hadn't been gagged he would have purred.

Pierre put away the fur, and noticed how much the boy's cock was leaking onto his belly. "Amateur," he said, scornfully, gathering up the pre-come with his finger. He licked it off, and placed a single finger on the head of Jonathan's cock. "Focus, Jonathan. The training room, the bed--it's all the same. The feeling of steel, the feeling of chains. Breathe, concentrate, Jonathan. Use it."

The boy nodded. Pierre looked down again. "I don't think I'm willing to risk you losing control though," he said, thoughtfully, and untied the silk off his upper arm. He let the silk dangle over the boy's skin, and Jonathan's abdominal muscles tightened. "Calm down," he chided lightly. "I don't want this to hurt you."

He slid the silk ribbon under the boy's cock and looped it several times up Jonathan's length. The dark burgundy looked beautiful against Jonathan’s skin as he tied off the end. "There," he said and ran a hand down his handiwork. The feeling of the boy's skin against the silk cloth was magnetic. Pierre had to tear his hand away.

He gave the boy a moment, and Jonathan's breathing lost the ragged edge to it. "Good boy," he whispered. "Now, hold very, very still."

Jonathan tensed. Pierre took up the candle, and very delicately spilled some of the hot wax onto the line of the boy's chest. The strangled scream followed, and the boy twisted against the bonds. Pierre put his hand over the boy's heart and felt how wild his heartbeat was. "Ride it," Pierre ordered. "Feel the pain and ride it, little one. Have you forgotten how to do this?"

Jonathan writhed, but then he calmed down. "That's it," he whispered. He put the candle down for a second and kissed around the red skin. He reached beside the candle, picked up one of the ice cubes, and made sure that it didn't drip. He ran his tongue along the edge of the still too hot wax, and then popped the ice cube in his mouth. He kissed the nipple, and then pressed the ice against it. Jonathan groaned again, but this time there was a begging sound to it.

Pierre alternated between the hot wax and the ice. Jonathan shuddered at the extremes, but took it. The ice cube melted in Pierre's mouth, and he let the last of the ice water run down over Jonathan's chest. "Promise me you'll be good?" he asked.

Jonathan nodded. His cock had darkened considerably, but the boy's control was admirable. Several times Pierre had to pull himself away from the boy to get a grip on himself. He picked up the blade, and pressed it against Jonathan. He worked a solid piece of wax off, working methodically on the six or seven spills over the boy's chest. Jonathan groaned again. His hands opened and closed, and his body shuddered. Jonathan thrust his hips once.

"Do you have something you'd like to ask me?" Pierre asked and worked the

blade under another piece of wax.

The groan was pure pain. "Would you like to come?" Pierre finally asked. He kissed the reddened spot caused by the hot wax, and without the heat it healed rapidly.

The boy groaned, but nodded hard enough to hurt himself.

Pierre drew the knife down to the boy's cock, and very carefully sliced the first ring of silk around it. Jonathan thrust against him, and Pierre put the flat of his hand over the boy's belly again. "I need you to be very still," he said.

Jonathan lay back down and unclenched his stomach muscles. His breathing slowed, and he smiled, wrapping the chains around his wrist. Pierre quickly cut off the next two wraps, and the rest of the silk slacked off enough to stop restricting the bloodflow: Jonathan was coming before Pierre finished wrapping his fingers around the shaft. Skin, heat and silk. Pierre couldn't stop himself. He barely got his pants unlaced. He came over the boy, and their semen mixed on Jonathan's belly.

Pierre collapsed over him, panting. He left the boy chained, but reached up and undid his gag. Jonathan spit it out, coughed once, and closed his eyes. Pierre fell asleep next to him.

"Pierre," Jonathan said.

The word stopped him. Jonathan had never used his name before. "Yes?" he asked.

"My arms are getting sore."

Pierre unlocked him. "Better?" he asked.

Jonathan nodded and rolled over, getting out of bed. He walked stiffly into the bathroom. Pierre heard the shower running but fell asleep before the boy rejoined him.

It had been a long time since Pierre had woken up to a soft mouth around his cock. Pierre groaned and ran his fingers through Jonathan's curls. Jonathan stopped for a moment and turned to his touch.

"Don't stop," Pierre groaned.

"Is that an order?"

"Jonathan, please."

"'Jonathan, please,'" Jonathan repeated, and smiled. "I like the way that sounds. Say it again."

"Jonathan, please!" Pierre howled. Jonathan slowly licked his way up to the tip of his cock.

"Amateur," he sneered. "Have you forgotten how to do this?" he mimicked.

Pierre's hand's tightened. "How would you like to go back to the wall?" he growled.

"If that’s what you prefer," Jonathan chirped and went to get off the bed.

Pierre grabbed him. "Where the hell are you going?"

"To the wall, sir."

"Do you know how long it takes to heal from two broken legs?"

"It would almost be worth it, sir."

"Bastard," Pierre hissed, but Jonathan grinned at him and then went down. Pierre's body flushed and his back broke out in sweat. But that was nothing as Jonathan's fingers slipped inside of him.

"Fuck!" Pierre cried out, and thought he would die before his lungs would work again. He slumped back to the bed as Jonathan wiped his mouth off. "Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome."

Pierre lay there for a long minute. "I need a shower," he finally announced. Jonathan kissed him with slightly swollen lips and got off the bed.

 

The day had passed quickly. Pierre had taken Jonathan out for brunch and tormented he boy by grinding his foot against his groin as he was trying to eat. Jonathan squirmed for a moment and then forced himself to relax, completely and totally. He ate the rest of his meal with a smug smile on his face.

The movie was even worse. They made the mistake of going to a very poorly dubbed film, and Jonathan became bored quickly.

"Oops," he stage whispered. They were pretty much alone in the theater except for an old man in the front row who was snoring.

"Oops, what?" Pierre asked, cautiously.

"I dropped a jawbreaker in your lap. Let me go find it."

"Jonathan, no," Pierre snapped, but Jonathan wasn't listening to him. He groped around, avoiding Pierre's hands that tried to stop him. "It's a public theater," he hissed. "Do you want to get us banned for life?"

"If they continue to show things this bad it would be worth it. Ah, found it," Jonathan said, and ground his palm against Pierre's sudden erection.

"That's no jawbreaker," Pierre growled.

"Always the modest one," Jonathan purred.

The man in front of them stopped snoring. "Cut it out," Pierre snapped.

"Aren't you sorry you molested me in the restaurant?" Jonathan asked.

Without answering, Pierre stood up, grabbed the boy's wrist and hauled him to his feet. Jonathan managed to grab the rest of his jawbreakers, but he lost his soda in the struggle. The bathroom was deserted. Pierre tossed him into one of the stalls, pinned him against the door and kissed him hard.

Licorice. Licorice and coke and a hint of bacon. Jonathan laughed into the kiss and offered him the candy on his tongue. Pierre took it. Jonathan lightly pushed him back and dropped to his knees. He undid Pierre's slacks and slowly rubbed his cheek against the cock. "Jonathan, please, hurry up. I can't afford to be arrested."

Jonathan didn't respond, but his mouth was full. He unzipped his own jeans, and began beating himself off. He hadn't asked permission. Pierre sort of missed that. But there was something so filthy about being in a public restroom getting off. His slacks were barely past his hips, Jonathan on his knees, panting around his cock, the too sweet hard candy in his mouth--it was all too much. He surprised himself by slamming his fist against the wall as he came.

Christ, Jonathan was good. Afterwards, Jonathan swallowed and Pierre hauled him to his feet. One hand went down and gathered Jonathan's cock, and the second pushed up the boy's t-shirt and played with his nipples. Jonathan groaned, twisting against him. Pierre kissed him again as Jonathan came.

The bastard stole his candy back.

The bell rang as the door pushed open. Jonathan didn't glance up at the walls and walls of tattoos designs, but went straight to the jewelry cabinet. Pierre glanced over the display of possible piercings with only mild interest.

Jonathan didn't notice him standing at the second glass case, so he reached out and grabbed the boy's belt-loop, hauling him back to him. Jonathan couldn't scramble back fast enough and landed against him. "What think you?" Pierre asked, pointing.

"They have to be welded on," Jonathan said, staring at the thick anklet chains.

"I know," Pierre said.

"Forever," Jonathan continued.

"I know," Pierre repeated.

Jonathan stared at him, stunned as the beads separating the backroom from the store front moved. Zane saw him. "Antoine!" he cried.

Pierre stepped forward. They hugged, and Zane kissed him on the cheek. "I haven't seen you here for ages, you bad boy," Zane chided, and then saw Jonathan standing confused against the counter. "Is this your new toy?" he asked.

Pierre almost laughed at how much Jonathan bristled over that. "Zane, honey, meet-"

"You've got some things to learn about this boy, my child," Zane said, pushing past Pierre to get to him. "First off, don't trust him, ever. Secondly, the tongue's silver but the eyes wander, so keep him on a leash--"

"Zane!" Pierre snarled, but it was too late. Jonathan broke from the hold and was gone. Pierre ran after him, catching up to him in an alleyway. "Jonathan--"

"Pierre, Antoine, whoever the hell you are--"

"Jonathan!" Pierre snapped, letting his voice drop in anger.

Jonathan's training cut in, and he stopped, mid-sentence. He was furious, though. Pierre kissed him again, but Jonathan's lips stayed firmly shut. Pierre nodded and backed away. "Am I just your new toy?" Jonathan asked, once Pierre had pushed away.

"No," Pierre said, placing his hand against the boy's chest.

"You didn't even want me," Jonathan continued. "I was...more like a favour for a friend."

"You heard that, did you?"

"Thin walls."

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault you have a cheap apartment."

"I mean I'm sorry I said it."

"Why did you take me in?"

"I don't know."

"Bullshit."

"Jonathan, you don't want me to answer that."

"Why not?"

"The truth is complicated."

"Fuck you, too," Jonathan snapped, pushing past him.

"I owed Adam. I make no apology for that. If he had wanted me to take in a beluga, I would have filled my tub. But I love you, Jonathan."

Jonathan stared at him. "You love me," he said.

Pierre hadn't meant to say it, it just slipped out. Jonathan turned around, putting his hands on his hips for a second while he thought about this. "Like, love, love me?"

"Like love, love you," Pierre agreed, and suddenly Jonathan's sword was at his throat. He hadn’t even seen the boy draw. "Nicely done," Pierre said, admirably.

"I've been practicing," Jonathan said, modestly, but pushed him against the wall. "Step out on me and I'll kill you," Jonathan said.

"You really think you could?"

"I know how, now," he said, shifting the edge higher on Pierre's throat. "Thanks to you."

"Understood, Jonathan." He tried to push the sword away, but Jonathan wouldn't let him. "What?" he demanded.

"I owe Adam too, but I wouldn’t take in a beluga." He brought the sword down.

"It’s a figure of speech, Jonathan."

"From what century, Pierre? And speaking of which, Pierre, what is your real name? What does Adam call you, when he’s asking you to take in belugas?"

Pierre paused, looking at Jonathan, then squinting into the sun. "Adam calls me Piri. Pirigenes." He paused again, gauging the effect. "But that’s not my real name. My real name, the one my mother called me, is Shaya."

"Shaya? That’s..."

"Short for Yishayahu. You could take me home to meet your mother," he grinned. "I haven’t told anyone in centuries," he continued, more somberly. "Not even Adam knows it."

Jonathan brought the sword up so that the edge rather than the tip rested against Pierre's throat. He moved in, groin to groin, and pressed in that extra inch.

"What now?" Pierre asked.

"I love you too," Jonathan whispered.

Pierre took hold of Jonathan's hand and slowly lowered the sword, just in case Jonathan got a bit excited. They kissed, but then he pushed Jonathan away. "Jonathan," he protested.

"Can't you tell a guy who wants to have his evil way with you?" Jonathan asked, thrusting up against him. His eyes were flashing.

"It will have to wait until we get home," Pierre said.

Jonathan grinned at him. "Really?" he squeaked, losing the last of his dangerous edge. "Really, honestly and truly?"

Immortals should not dance down alleyways, Pierre decided. It wasn't the least bit dignified.

*********

Jonathan stared at the flame as it came close to his skin. Pierre kissed him to distract him, but Jonathan pushed him away. "I want to watch this," he said.

Pierre walked to the window and bent down to take the cloth off his own. It was still hot, but not hot enough to burn. The weight was funny against the top of his foot, but he could grow to like it.

"All done," Zane said, and poured water over the chain. It hissed for a moment, and then he wrapped it up in the cloth. Jonathan went to get off the tattoo chair, but Zane stopped him. "You know I was kidding, don't you, boy?" he asked.

Jonathan cocked his head, but didn't say anything.

"Antoine's a handful, but he's worth it."

Jonathan just grinned. "Actually he's more of a handful and a half, wouldn't you say?"

"Easily," Zane said and winked at him.

*********

 

Jonathan jumped around with his chain, seeing how it looked in this light and in that pose. Pierre grabbed his hips, pulling back his hands. "What's this just 'and a half' business?" he demanded.

"I have big hands," Jonathan protested. "You even said so."

Pierre kissed his shoulder. "It looks good on you," he whispered.

Jonathan reached behind him, slowly running his fingers up the line of Pierre's neck and ground back behind him before letting him go.

"You and your public decency laws," Jonathan grumped.

"Hey, they're your laws. In my day people just stepped over two guys rutting on the street," Pierre protested.

Jonathan stopped in the middle of the abandoned parking lot. "Two thousand

years," he said, wondrously. "Wow."

"There are older," Pierre said and got in the car.

Jonathan followed. They were about half way home when Jonathan glanced at

him again.

"Once we master your swordfighting techniques, we are going to work on your subtlety."

Jonathan moved closer to him. "I can't help it, I'm too excited," he said. The motion caused the anklet to move, and Jonathan bent to fuss with it.

"Um, you've done this before, right?" Pierre asked.

"Not exactly," came the muffled reply. Jonathan straightened up and smiled

brilliantly. "Don't worry, though, I've studied all the literature."

Pierre laughed, weakly.

Jonathan took the keys from his hand and unlocked the door. Pierre followed him in, amused, and then grunted as Jonathan pushed him back against the wall. Pierre pushed him back, but Jonathan knocked his hands away. Pierre relaxed and let the boy take over.

They made it to the bedroom. Jonathan had managed to remove Pierre’s slacks in the hall without killing him. Pierre lifted his arms so Jonathan could take his shirt off too, but Jonathan only pulled it half way and twisted it, effectively immobilizing and hooding him at the same time.

"Struggle if you want. You'll only stretch out your new shirt," Jonathan said. "I suggest you lie down. On your belly, please."

Pierre did so. Jonathan quickly secured his ankles. This was not what Pierre had been imagining. He had thought it would be a frantic tumble with a lot of lube. This was a pleasant surprise, sort of.

Jonathan straddled his back. "The way I see it, you have two choices, my friend. You can stay in there, which gets very hot, by the way, or you can put your arms up to the bedposts. Don't speak, nod if you understand."

Pierre nodded. Jonathan stripped off the rest of his shirt and Pierre reached up and did what he was told.

"I like your wrists," Jonathan said. Pierre opened his mouth to say something, but Jonathan must have felt the larger intake of breath. His hand came down and covered his mouth. "No talking. Not right now. And no muttering under your breath or dirty looks, either." Jonathan bent over him as he reached to secure Pierre's wrists. "I know where you keep your gags."

Pierre settled back to enjoy the ride.

Jonathan crawled back between Pierre's thigh. Pierre jolted as he felt Jonathan's tongue, and grunted. Jonathan bit him hard on his ass. "Sloppy, Pierre. You disappoint me."

That was sloppy, Pierre had to agree. It had been a while since he had bottomed, and he felt out of practice. He moved his hips, and Jonathan went back to what he was doing. "That's better. Be a good boy, Pierre." The talking stopped as the tongue worked its way back inside him. It was softer than a cock or a finger, but much more flexible. Jonathan fucked him with it and then worked the first digit of his finger inside Pierre, but never tried to push it in harder. Pierre swallowed in an effort not to make a sound, and tried to force himself back.

The slap stung. "No. Take what I give you, don't ask for more."

 

He now knew his lover was a sadist, but the exactitude of his memory totally sucked. He forced his face into the pillow to keep himself from ordering his former slave to just give up and fuck him already.

"Good," Jonathan said. "Nod your head if you want more of my finger inside you. Just the finger, that's all you deserve."

Deserve? What the fuck was that about? When he got unchained he was going to show Jonathan exactly how unwise teasing him like this was, but he forced himself to nod. Revenge would be his.

"You know, I kind of like this, you being quiet and all. You are sort of pushy. Did you know that? And you snore. Not very loudly of course, I suppose if I wanted to I could just suffocate you in your sleep, but you'd probably just heal and start snoring again."

He'd kill him. He'd fucking kill him. It became a mantra, but not one strong enough to distract him from the single digit working its way inside him or the string of words out of Jonathan's mouth.

"After this, can we get Chinese food? I really like Chinese food. Unless you'd like a pizza. How about a juicy steak, three inches thick?" Jonathan continued.

Jonathan stopped talking. Pierre relaxed and then jolted as Jonathan slapped him again. "That was a question, Pierre. I expect you answer questions."

The finger thrust itself inside him, and he opened his mouth. "Yes," he hissed.

Jonathan fucked him slowly, in and out. "That wasn't a yes or no question, Pierre. I understand that French isn't your first language, but try to keep up."

"Chinese is fine," he gritted out.

Jonathan laughed. "That's better. Would you like me to fuck you now?"

There were dozens of smart answers Pierre could have used. None of them would have gotten him fucked. "Yes, please," he said meekly.

Jonathan only laughed, and moved up. "Now, that didn't hurt, did it?" he asked, and licked his way up the back of Pierre's neck. His breath was hot against Pierre's skin. Both Jonathan's hands moved to his hips, holding him open. "Pierre?"

"No," Pierre said, as Jonathan's hands dug more tightly into his skin. "It didn't."

"Good," Jonathan said, and then bit him on the neck. One of Jonathan's hands moved to the mattress to brace himself, and the other one guided himself into Pierre's body, slowly. Pierre relaxed, making it easier for him, and Jonathan slowly pressed his way inside. There was no real pain, he was too prepared for that, but it had been a while. He slowly exhaled, accepting Jonathan that much more as his body relaxed.

Jonathan shuddered against him. The boy pressed his forehead against Pierre's shoulder, and exhaled. "Pierre?" he asked, voice shaking.

"Yes?"

"Talk to me, please?"

All the hostility he felt for the boy died. "Breathe, Jonathan, it only seems overwhelming for the first couple seconds."

"You're so hot...I'm melting inside you."

"Not yet, you're not," Pierre laughed, and Jonathan joined in weakly. "I love you."

Jonathan's breathing stopped for a moment. He thought the boy was going to

pass out. He squeezed his muscles against the boy, and Jonathan yelped. "Stay with me, Jonathan."

"I love you, too."

"Glad to hear it. Jonathan, um...try moving?"

Jonathan slowly pulled away from him for a couple inches, and then pushed him back inside. "Oh, wow," he whispered.

"You're doing fine," Pierre said.

"Say it again," Jonathan said, thrusting inside him again.

"I love you," Pierre said. "Oh, God, Jonathan, do that again."

Jonathan flexed his hips. "This?"

"Um, that. Perfect. Lovely. You know, how about Sushi?"

"Pierre?" Jonathan asked.

"Uh-huh?"

"Can I just...fuck you?"

"You're half-way there, Jonathan."

Jonathan groaned again, but carefully brushed against Pierre's prostate again. Pierre rattled the chains holding him. Jonathan started slowly, but it didn't take him long to speed up. Pierre bit the pillow. Jonathan kept his thrusts at the exact same angle, and reached around to jerk him off at the same time, catching him on the right spot repeatedly, inside and out. Pierre moved his shoulders, feeling the chains against him, almost wanting to beg Jonathan to stop and give him a minute to recover. But the boy bit down on his shoulder again, and slowly raked his teeth over the skin. Pierre came, shuddering against the blankets. Jonathan yelped again, and collapsed over him.

He woke up to Jonathan undoing the chains.

Jonathan left him in the bed and went to go wash up. Pierre rolled over, stretching like a satisfied cat.

Jonathan came back and straddled Pierre's lower belly. He smelled of soap and toothpaste. "So?" he asked.

"So what?"

"Was I any good?" Jonathan asked. His face was open and curious. He cocked his head while Pierre watched. "Well?" he asked.

"Your bed-side manner sucks, Jonathan."

"More than my bed-side manner sucks, Pierre. I'm asking if I'm any good, and I think I have a right to know!"

Pierre laughed, and reached up to play with the boy's curls. "I was ready to kill you a hundred times over. That was brilliant, you know. The questions. God, and your tongue. That was great, too."

Jonathan grinned at him. "And the...uh...sex?" he asked, almost passing for shy.

"Come here," he said, fingers tightening in the boy's hair. "You were great."

"Really?"

"Fishing for compliments now, are we?"

Jonathan made the motions for casting and reeling in an imaginary rod.

"You were great," Pierre repeated. He tugged on a strand of hair. Jonathan pulled away. "Why haven't you done it before?"

Jonathan lay back in bed. "It never came up. Then I got into..." he motioned to the chains, "and the sex just seemed, you know...secondary."

Pierre stroked the boy's cheek. "Sleep now," he said.

********

Chapter 4: Graduation Day, or, Boogie Woogie Beluga Boy

The metal on his ankle moved against the top of his foot. It made him smile. The platinum shone, and he caught himself being almost mesmerized by it.

The apartment was empty. Pierre must have gone for groceries. Jonathan poured himself the last of the orange juice and threw out the carton. He drank it, and took a moment to enjoy the burn from his exhausted muscles before they healed themselves. That's what he missed the most about mortality. Not the occasional bout of asthma that had kept him from running when he had been alive before, but the feeling of pleasant pain that ached through him just to remind himself that he was alive.

He felt Pierre coming down the hall, and quickly put the glass in the dishwasher. He wanted to surprise the man in the entrance way and hopefully end up in compromising positions. Running, he had discovered, made him very receptive to Pierre's charms.

Okay, he was horny as hell.

He didn't even wait for the turn of the key. He threw the door open, and backpedaled hard as Gregor stood in the hall. "Did you honestly think I would forget about you?" he asked.

"Get out," Jonathan said in a low voice. "Pierre's due back any time now and he'll kill you if he finds you here."

"It's from one sugar-daddy to the next for you, isn't it, sweet little whore? Do you think this one actually loves you? You naïve little fool. He is nothing to you, and you're just a convenient fuck."

"You're wrong," Jonathan said. He kept his voice strong, but when Gregor took a step forward, Jonathan bolted.

There wasn't anywhere to go. Gregor grabbed him and threw him against the wall. He hit hard enough to steal his breath, but he ducked away to keep from being pinned down. "You slut. You're nothing. Do you hear me? You are nothing to them. You give them what they want. Do you think this one will want you if he ever discovers how stupid and clumsy you really are? You're giving him what you think he wants, and you're fooling yourself into believing you love him."

"I never loved you," Jonathan hissed. "Ever! You hurt me and I took it, that was it."

"You liar. You needed me."

Jonathan jumped back, but Gregor grabbed his shirt. Jonathan yanked hard enough to rip the cloth, but it unbalanced him. He fell back, and screamed as Gregor's foot came down over his so violently it almost broke the bones. Gregor grabbed his anklet, hauling it up. Jonathan tried to kick out with his other foot, but Gregor grabbed his other foot, pinching down so hard on the ankle that it hurt. Jonathan yelped again, and the man pinched harder, digging in his nails. "You never could take the pain, could you, whore?" he demanded.

"You hurt me too much," Jonathan whimpered.

"You were supposed to take it."

"It doesn't work like that!" Jonathan scrambled as far as he could, but Gregor stood over him, pulling him back. His T-shirt ran up, and as Jonathan twisted to get away it bunched up. Gregor roared, letting him go. Jonathan almost made it to the sofa before he was stopped. Gregor knelt over his back. "Where are they!" he demanded.

"I took them out," Jonathan managed. The knees on his back dug in harder. "I'm not your little whore any more."

"You will never stop being my whore," Gregor demanded. Jonathan’s running shorts didn't provide much protection, and he froze as Gregor forced them down. "At least this hasn't changed. Nice, very nice," Gregor drawled. He forced his finger in dry, and Jonathan forced himself to relax under it.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"What was that?" Gregor demanded.

"I'm sorry...Master. Please. Don't...Master, please," Jonathan whispered. He closed his eyes, but thrust himself back onto the finger.

"Very good, little slave. I am going to get off you now. If you move, I will kill you, do you understand?"

Jonathan nodded, "Yes, Master."

Gregor climbed off him, but Jonathan felt him hover. The second the man backed up long enough take off his pants, Jonathan scrambled the two feet. His hand found the hilt of the sword under the sofa, and he twisted away, bringing the sword up. "Stay away from he," he hissed, keeping the blade between him and Gregor. "Just stay away."

"You chicken-shit little punk. I am going to take that sword away and I'm going to fuck you with it," Gregor snapped. He went to take it from him, but Jonathan batted his hand away. He couldn't stand up, not without tripping over the shorts that had been pulled down to his knees, but he wasn't going put the sword down to pull them up.

Gregor went to take his sword out, but they both felt it. "Tomorrow by the bridge, at dawn," he hissed. "Be there, little slave."

Jonathan nodded.

He put his sword away. Jonathan quickly pulled his shorts up. Pierre burst through the unlocked door and saw them both standing. "You and me, right now, Gregor. Enough of this," Pierre growled.

Gregor bowed to him mockingly. "Not quite your turn, Shane. I'll wait for you."

"Fight me now."

Gregor shook his head. "Play by the rules, Shane."

Gregor left them. "You agreed?" Pierre demanded.

Jonathan didn't look up, but he nodded.

"How could you!"

"You told me it didn't matter if I agreed to it or not. A challenge has been made," Jonathan said. He didn't move from where he sat, but drew his knees up and hugged them.

Pierre knelt down next to him. "When?" he asked, quietly.

"Tomorrow at ten," Jonathan said.

Pierre kissed his knee. "You'll do fine," he said. His voice only shook a little. He looked at Jonathan. "Did he hurt you?"

Jonathan shook his head. "I'd be healed from it already, wouldn't I?" he asked.

"Jonathan--"

"What, Pierre? What do you want?"

The sudden snap jarred him. Jonathan had never raised his voice before to him. "To scrub your back. You're just back from a run, weren't you?"

Jonathan nodded. Pierre kissed him, and went back to retrieve the dropped

groceries.

In the tub, Pierre brought the sponge down over his shoulders. "I'm not...giving you what you wanted, am I?" Jonathan asked.

"What?" Pierre asked. He kissed the back of Jonathan's head.

"What did you want from me?" he asked.

"I wanted you, Jonathan, not that...mask you hid behind."

"And now that you got me? Do you still want me?"

"That is not the right question to ask."

"Why not?"

"Because I've been soaking in very hot water for a very long time and I don't think I could show you exactly how much I want you for a little while."

Jonathan snugged himself up to him that much closer. "Really?" he asked, moving his hips against him.

Pierre stood up, pulling the plug out. "Bath over," Pierre announced. He pulled the dripping wet Jonathan out of the tub and took out a towel. "Do you remember the first time?" he asked.

"The wall. How could I forget," Jonathan said. He almost got away without sounded bitter. "That was good, by the way. Really good. How did you know?"

"You screamed high maintenance. I never wanted you to forget that night."

Jonathan touched his cheek. "I never will."

Pierre dropped to his knees. He looked up to meet Jonathan's eyes as he took the boy's soft cock in his mouth. Jonathan jumped, alarmed, but quickly relaxed to it. This wasn't a time for words. They both realized that.

He tasted of bath water, but Pierre was content to keep the softened cock in his mouth until it woke up and realized what was happening. Jonathan moaned as he leaned up against the wall. Pierre took the boy's hands and guided them to his head, letting the boy lead. Jonathan thrust his hips, preferring instead to hold Pierre's head still. Pierre smiled around the boy's cock and worked his hand between the boy's legs, but the boy broke away and went into the bedroom.

Pierre followed him, and sat down where Jonathan motioned him. The boy opened the tube of jelly, and warmed it to body temperature before working it over Pierre's cock. "I love you," Jonathan whispered, and then turned around.

Pierre didn't want it like that. He wanted to be facing the boy, seeing the expression on his face, but Jonathan didn't give him the chance. Pierre could only grip onto Jonathan's hips. It felt almost manual to him. He couldn't stop himself from coming, the boy rode him too well, but the way Jonathan fucked his fist made it almost seem like the boy wasn't enjoying himself, either. Pierre came, feeling cheated. "What's wrong?" he asked, kissing the boy's shoulder.

"Nothing," Jonathan said. He got up and brought back a damp towel. He wiped them both off, and then got into his side of the bed.

Pierre joined him, and pulled the unyielding body next to him. Jonathan remained stiff against him for a second and then relaxed. Pierre kissed the back of his head, playing with the wet curls. Jonathan tried to ignore him, but Pierre wasn't playing fair. He finally laughed and turned around.

"That's better," Pierre said, and kissed the boy. Jonathan tried to duck under it, but Pierre wouldn't let him hide. They kissed, both too tired for anything else. Jonathan was a sweet kisser, demure and shy one second, and over him, demanding, the next. Pierre moved his head back so Jonathan could lick his way down his throat. "I never did get you to give me a tongue bath," he said.

"A tongue bath?" Jonathan asked and stopped lapping at the soft spot on Pierre's throat.

"Um, I love tongue baths," Pierre said. He played with the curls. "Especially my toes. I love getting my toes sucked. You would have enjoyed the punishment if you would have missed a spot."

Jonathan trembled. "Which was?" he asked.

Pierre stroked the soft spot behind his ear. "Something horrific, I assure you," he whispered.

"Tell me," Jonathan whispered. He moved down to Pierre's nipple. He licked it flatly with his tongue and then blew on it. The chill was momentary as Jonathan moved his mouth back over it.

Pierre laughed, twisting his fingers in Jonathan's curls. "There's a reason I bought chocolate sauce last week," he said. "I would have shown you the proper way to bathe a person."

Jonathan stopped his sucking for a second. He looked up. "No pain?" he asked.

"If you want wanted it, I would have given it to you," Pierre said. He pulled his fingers free to cup the boy's chin. "I'd never deny you anything."

Jonathan moved back up, curling up next to him. He used Pierre's arm as a pillow, forsaking his own. "How can you tell?" Jonathan asked.

Pierre pulled the blankets up to their shoulders and moved up next to the boy. Despite their play, his cock was still soft, and he liked the way it felt pressed up against Jonathan's back. "I can tell," he whispered.

"Pierre?" the boy asked, now more than half asleep.

"Yes?" Pierre asked.

"Tomorrow, can I give you a tongue bath?"

"Do you promise to do a good job?"

"No promises," the boy mumbled, burying himself down further. Pierre said his name again, but there was no answer.

The sun wasn't up yet when Pierre felt for Jonathan and he wasn't there. Pierre rolled over, and saw the boy in his running clothes, tying his shoelaces. The air smelled of ozone. "Running in the rain?" he asked.

"I can beat it," Jonathan said. "I can't sleep, might as well. Go back to sleep, Shaya, you've got a few hours left until morning.

"Bring a sweater, you'll catch a cold," Pierre said, wrapping himself back in his blankets.

"It won't kill me," Jonathan said, and kissed him on the forehead.

Pierre didn't know how long he lay asleep before realizing what the boy had called him. He jolted out of bed, but the boy's sword was gone from his side of the room. Shit, shit, shit.

Naked, he went to the window, but there was obviously no sign of the boy. He picked up the phone and dialed Methos.

Another man answered the phone, his deep slightly accented voice greeting him in

English. "Hello?"

"Put Adam on," Pierre said, almost strangling himself with the phone cord as he tried to dress himself. In the background he heard Methos groggily asking what time it was. "Put him on!" he almost shouted.

"Who is this?" the man asked, but a scraping sound came over the line and Methos came on the line next.

"Hello?"

"Methos, Jonathan's gone."

"Gone?" Methos asked, "Pierre, hold on, I'll be right there."

"No! I need you to help me look for him. I'm hanging up this phone and--"

"Pierre, I'll be right there. Wait for me," Methos said, using his harshest voice. "If it's a challenge there is nothing you can do. You want to be there for him when he gets back."

Pierre nodded in the empty room. Methos was right, but it still stung. Methos took Pierre's lack of response for acquiescence, and Pierre heard him getting off the bed. "I'll be right there," he repeated. "Wait for me, Pierre."

"Waiting," Pierre said, and hung up the phone.

It took Methos twenty minutes to get to his apartment. The living room window pointed due east, and the sunrise was spectacular against the few clouds hovering over the horizon. Pierre stared at it without seeing it.

He felt the warning in his head and bounded for the door, but it was just Methos carrying a bag of croissants and fresh coffee. "Not back yet?" he asked, lightly.

Pierre took a coffee but ignored the food. He went back to the window as Methos carried the bag into kitchen. He emerged a moment later with croissants on a plate, butter and preserves on the side.

"Come, eat."

"I eat anything and I'll be sick," Pierre said as he paced in front of the window. "Where the hell is he?"

"At a fight," Methos said. "It's dawn now, that's the traditional time. I can't see an Immortal saying ten minutes past dawn, or even ten minutes before. How could you tell when ten minutes before dawn is, unless you check with the almanac, and that takes the spontaneity out of it completely."

"If you don't shut up now, I am going to kill you," Pierre snarled.

Methos pulled a gun from somewhere in his clothes and tossed it at Pierre. "Go ahead, if it makes you feel any better."

Pierre caught it and stared. He tossed it back. "You'd bleed on my carpets," he said.

"You did what you could, Pierre. You knew this would happen someday."

"He's had two months training, Methos. How is that fair?"

"Did you want him to hide behind you for all eternity?" Methos asked, carefully.

Pierre sighed, but shook his head.

"He's a resourceful kid. Smart, quick. He'll be okay."

"And if he isn't?" Pierre demanded.

Methos took his hand and squeezed. He didn't comment on the slight tremor. "Then he isn't," Methos said, flatly. "You're too old to need things sugar-coated."

"You know, you'd suck as a therapist," Pierre said as he pulled his hand away. "The least you could do is lie to me and tell me he's definitely going to make it."

"He's definitely going to make it," Methos said, obediently. "Anything else?"

"He's just a kid," Pierre said. He took a sip of the coffee and resisted the urge to spit it out. It was sour and bitter in his mouth, which had nothing to do with the quality of the bean. "And that fucker messed with him enough. He doesn't deserve any of this."

"No, he doesn't. Croissant?"

"Not hungry," he went to the fridge and cracked open a bottle of water. The milk was going to expire the next day. Jonathan usually drank it like a baby cow, but he was off his food the night before. Methos came up behind him and gently closed the fridge door. Pierre shook his head, realizing how cold his feet had become.

"Sit down, Pierre. He might be awhile," Methos said, gently, taking his hand and leading him to a kitchen chair.

"Two thousand years and I never let anyone get to me. Not after Nilus, never again," Pierre said, watching the tiny bubbles form on the edge of the green glass."

"And you said you dealt with that. What happened to him?" Methos asked.

"Nilus? He died."

"Of course he died. How?"

"The money our parents got from me bought him a commission. He went abroad

and died in some mountain pass. I think he was gutted," Pierre said, flatly.

Methos nodded, sipping his coffee. "Couldn't have happened to a nicer fellow."

"But I loved him," Pierre said. "That was the crazy part. I honestly loved him. All he did was take a coin not to come with me to the baths. That was it. One little betrayal. He didn't know. Our parents...his parents I could hate, but not Nilus."

Methos shrugged. "It's a long time to be alone," he said.

"I wasn't alone. There's a reason you always had to write me to tell me of your visits, Methos," Pierre said. He smiled bitterly and watched the bubbles again.

"That was fucking someone. That wasn't not being alone."

"I fucked you, didn't I? Does that not count, either?"

"That was something else," Methos said.

"What? What was it, Methos?"

"Need," Methos said, quietly. "I needed you, you needed me. Isn't that enough or do you want to dissect it further?"

"There was a time where I did love you...did you ever know that? All you had to do was ask to spend the night--"

"Pierre, don't."

"Afraid of the truth?"

"Afraid of where it's leading. We aren't there anymore."

"Where are we?" Pierre asked.

"Pierre, I--" Methos looked at him, and then looked away suddenly. "We're here."

They both felt the warning. Pierre jumped to his feet, throwing the door open again.

Jonathan threw himself at him. At first, Pierre thought it was because Jonathan was glad to see him, but he felt the bulge in front of Jonathan's shorts. "You never told me," Jonathan managed between the kisses. "Oh, wow."

Methos had the tact to look away from where Jonathan was grinding against his

former slave. "Food?" Jonathan asked, breaking away from the kiss as suddenly as he had started. Jonathan grabbed one of the croissants, slathered it with butter, and bit off a quarter of it.

Jonathan went back to where Pierre still leaned, unsure if the weakness of his knees was due to relief or the sudden lack of extra blood in his system. Jonathan kissed him again, and Pierre nibbled the crumbs from the boy's lips, suddenly starving. Jonathan's eyes glinted, and he held the next morsel of food inches from his lip. Pierre reached for it, licking the dollop of melting butter off the boy's fingers.

"Maybe I should go," Methos said, standing up.

"Just a second," Pierre said. He pushed Jonathan away for a second, and hugged the man. "Thank you," he said, quietly. "For Jonathan, for this morning...for everything," he whispered.

"Ahem," Jonathan said, behind him. "Mind if I cut in?"

Pierre backed away. Jonathan moved into his recently vacated space. Jonathan wanted more than a kiss though. His hands came around, cupping Methos' ass, and when they kissed, Jonathan's cheeks moved. The bastard was, as the crass American expression went, ‘frenching’ his slave. Methos tilted his head back, and Pierre revised that last thought. His slave was frenching the bastard.

He sprayed them both with mineral water. "Cut that out," he said, more amused than anything.

Jonathan blinked innocently and wiped his mouth. "Pierre?" he asked, tilting his head. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked, cheekily.

"If you are going to do that, make our guest more comfortable," Pierre said. Jonathan looked at him, cocking his head to one side like a dog about to go on a walk. Pierre nodded. They owed Methos at least that, if Methos wanted to play.

Jonathan moved back into Methos' space. "Can I take your sword? Jacket? Pants or any undergarments you may be wearing?"

"Don't tease me, pup," Methos said, still not exactly sure what was going on.

Jonathan took an extra step, kissing Methos' neck. He began rubbing against Methos' hip. "Not even a little bit?"

Methos grabbed Jonathan by the scruff of the neck. "That's it. Pierre?" Methos asked. That he stopped to ask permission first touched Pierre.

"By all means, you know where the bedroom is," Pierre said, mildly. He covered the croissants; they might get stale by the time this was finished.

"Pierre!" Jonathan squawked, but Pierre ignored him as Methos frog-marched the squirming boy to the bedroom. "Wait!"

Methos tossed the boy in the bedroom. "Thank you," Methos said before he went inside the room as well.

"Don't thank me until you actually get him. He's a handful," Pierre said, putting the butter back in the fridge.

"I doubt that," Methos said.

Pierre shrugged, and joined him a moment later. "Take them off," Methos said.

Jonathan stood in the centre of the room, arms crossed across the chest. "You first."

Methos stalked toward him menacingly. "I said, take your clothes off."

"Jonathan," Pierre said from the door.

Methos' eyebrow raised at how quickly the boy lifted his head. "Play nice," Pierre continued.

Pierre held the boy's gaze, and Jonathan slowly began taking off clothes. They fell in a heap until the boy was naked. "Apologize to our guest," he said.

The boy's body was shaking in excitement. "I'm sorry for teasing you," he said.

"Perfect. Come here, Jonathan," Pierre said, stepping into the room. Jonathan's body was magnificent. It had filled out that much more with his sword work, and Pierre took a moment to run his hands over the boy's chest. "You are so beautiful," he said. "And you are going to tell me how you won, but if I don't get inside you soon, I am going to burst," Pierre whispered.

Jonathan flushed, smiling with obvious pride. "Thank you," he said.

Pierre nodded to Methos, who tossed him the simple tube that was on the bedside table. Pierre worked quickly behind him, kissing his back. Pierre worked a single finger into the boy, but he was ready for him. The first thrust inside him was so welcoming that Pierre took a moment pressed up against his back. "I need you," he whispered.

"You have me," Jonathan said, simply, rocking up to the balls of his feet before he collapsed again.

Pierre glanced to Methos. "Do me a favour?" he called.

Methos smiled, and knelt down in front of the boy. Jonathan jerked, startled, and then relaxed into Pierre's body. "Trust me," Pierre whispered. He kissed the back of the boy's head. "Just trust me and ride it."

Jonathan laughed, reaching up behind him, and stroked the back of Pierre's

neck. "Just don’t ask me to take in a beluga," the boy murmured.

Methos looked up, puzzled. Pierre laughed, waving it off, then gripped onto the boy's hips, careful not to thrust too hard and disrupt Methos' excellent blowjob, and began fucking the boy properly.

It wasn't really Jonathan's fault. With the quickening still racing around in his blood and the double stimuli, Jonathan didn't have much of a chance.

He gulped for air far too soon, and came down Methos' throat. Pierre let him down to his hands and knees, and then royally started fucking him.

It took him less than two minutes to recover. Jonathan went from passively accepting the thrusts to twisting up to meet them. Pierre reached around the boy's body to gather up the boy's still half hard cock, now slick with Methos' saliva, and worked it back into a full erection.

Jonathan was so beautiful when he was into his own feelings that deeply. It was a huge change from the boy's cautious acceptance of the pleasure as long as it pleased whomever he was with. He started to chant, 'yes', over and over again and laughed, thrusting harder into him. In all the sex they've had, this was the first plain fucking Pierre had ever given the boy.

Methos moved up in front of the boy, guiding Jonathan's head to his cock. Jonathan gulped it down joyfully like a pup with a new toy. He pulled back for a second though, turning around to look at Pierre as best he could, and then the little bastard started to tighten his internal muscle against him. It was too rhythmic, exactly how Pierre liked it, and Jonathan knew it. Pierre tried to fight it, but even thinking of bonds trading didn't help. He came inside the boy, but vindictively found Jonathan's spot behind the base of his balls and pressed it, raking his nails ever so slightly hard

against the perineum. Jonathan almost choked on Methos' cock as he came.

Pierre pushed away, going into the bathroom to wash up. When he got back Methos and Jonathan had moved to the bed. Methos had finished as well, and he was amusing himself by stroking the boy's body. It was far too possessive for Pierre’s taste. Pierre joined them on the bed, pulling Jonathan's chin to him. He kissed the boy, playing with the boy's nipples as Methos continued with the boy's lower belly and thighs. Jonathan squirmed, but they both ignored his groin.

Pierre pulled away from the kiss and darted his tongue out to taste the salt of they boy’s sweat over his eyebrows. He kissed the bridge of his nose, his cheeks, and his forehead. Methos had worked the boy back into having an erection, all without touching him. "May I?" he asked, grinning ferally. "I washed my hands this morning."

"Where have the been since?" Pierre asked, but nodded. He moved Jonathan so that the boy was over him, belly to belly, and Methos nudged the boy's legs apart from behind. The boy was still slicked and opened from before, but Methos took extra care before starting. Jonathan grabbed Pierre's wrists, holding them above Pierre's head as he half lifted himself off Pierre's chest.

Pierre would have preferred his hands free to roam over the sculptured body over him. Just too watch was cruel. Jonathan smiled down at him, but that turned into a gasp as Methos entered him. The boy tried to match some of the strokes grinding him against Pierre, but it didn't work. They were too forceful and too quick. He lay back down, still holding Pierre's hands away from him, and relied on Methos' motion to rock over Pierre's cock.

Pierre kissed him, loving the desperate gasps that took over Jonathan's usual breathing. The boy was hyperventilating. He hadn't done that in all the time Pierre knew him. Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to hold back, but Pierre kissed his bottom lip. "Let it go," Pierre whispered.

Jonathan let go of Pierre's wrists and sat up so that his elbows balanced most of his weight. The tendons in his neck were completely exposed to Pierre, and Pierre reached up to wrap his fingers around the boy's throat. He didn't squeeze, but he didn't have to. Jonathan pressed down on the hands as he came, spurting onto Pierre's stomach.

Pierre held the boy until the shuddering stopped. There wasn't much seed on his belly from the boy, but Methos gathered up what there was and licked it off his fingers on his way to the shower.

Pierre reached for the tube and squirted a healthy amount of gel onto his fingers. They were both lying on their sides, facing each other, and Pierre gathered the boy's cock in it. The cold against his cock woke the boy up. "No," Jonathan whispered, trying to pull Pierre's hand off him.

Pierre caught his hand. "This one is for me," he whispered. "Look at me, Jonathan."

Jonathan's eyes opened. The poor boy was shuddering against him. "I can't...Pierre, please," he whispered.

"Look at me," Pierre repeated. Jonathan met his eyes, body wincing, but then relaxed the longer he kept the gaze. "That's right, good boy. Keep looking at me. I want you to come again for me, Jonathan, please."

Jonathan took a shaky breath, but started to thrust into the waiting fist. "That's a good boy," Pierre said. He moved in, kissing the boy again. "Slow your breathing. Accept this."

The boy's chest began to rise and fall in tandem with his. "Say it," the boy whispered.

"I love you," Pierre whispered. He kissed the boy's neck, nibbling on the tendons that still stood up from the skin. "Relax, Jonathan. I love you."

The boy started to whimper, but Pierre kissed away the tension in his muscles. "I love you, too," Jonathan whispered. "So much, Pierre."

"Come for me, Pierre. Let me drain you. Don't force it, let it come."

Jonathan angled away. Pierre looked at him, and Jonathan met his eyes. "Help me," he whispered.

Pierre moved in, letting the boy use his hip. Pierre held the boy to him, rocking his body against his. Jonathan was honestly sobbing as he came. There was nothing more inside him. Pierre held him until he was asleep, and then without letting the boy go, turned around and groped for their single pair of handcuffs he kept in his bedside table.

Jonathan didn't wake as Pierre cuffed him lightly, nor did he fight as Pierre chained him to the bedpost. In his sleep, the boy rattled the chain, testing it, and then smiled, curling up in the bed.

Methos finished his shower as Pierre was pulling from the boy. He'd be too hot for the blankets, so Pierre covered him with a single sheet. "Is he alright?" Methos asked.

"He will be," Pierre said. He leaned over the bed and kissed the boy's forehead. "Beer?"

Methos nodded.

***********

Pierre handed Methos the bottle and cracked his own open. Neither one of them mentioned the fact it was only nine o'clock in the morning. Pierre leaned against the fridge for a moment and took a long drink before returning to the table. He took a croissant, broke it open, and spread preserves over it.

"So that it, then?" Methos said. He glanced up and down Pierre's naked body as he lounged on the kitchen chair.

"Not much else to say," Pierre said. He saluted Methos with his bottle. "Thank you, though. For bringing him here."

"I didn't have anywhere else to take him. Mac wouldn't understand him, and I couldn't give the boy what he needed."

"Whereas I could," Pierre said. The jam was too sweet in his mouth, but the beer helped.

"You did. It's amazing, and he won. I never saw anyone get off so much on having a sword at his neck."

Pierre choked. He coughed, brushing the crumbs off his chest. "Present company excluded, of course," Methos amended.

Methos bowed his head, mockingly, and then knocked back the last of his bottle. "Another one?"

"In the fridge."

Methos stood up, but stopped in the archway that separated the dining room

from the kitchen. "Those are nice, by the way."

Pierre picked up the heavy chain. "Thank you," he said.

"Platinum?"

"Too much?" Pierre asked.

"Depends. I didn't see a clasp on the boy's either."

"We had them welded on."

"Nice touch."

"I thought so."

"You've never welded anything on for me."

He finished his beer. "I've never had my fist up your ass either. It's a different kind of relationship." He stood up and brought back a second bottle. "What about 'the him'? He has a nice voice. You going to get something welded on for him?"

Methos sputtered into his beer. He wiped off his face. "I might. I might have to kill him first."

"I killed Jonathan twice already. Highly effective technique, if drastic. I suggest trying it. What's the problem between you two?"

Methos shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "It's complicated. He's..." Methos stopped talking and smiled. "He's probably waiting for me. I should go."

Pierre stood up as Methos picked up his jacket and sword. "Keep this one," Methos said.

"He's kept," Pierre said. He kissed Methos' cheek.

Pierre walked him to the door and locked it behind him. He leaned against the door, feeling the chill of it against his bare back, and fixed the boy some breakfast. He went back into the bedroom with the tray.

He got onto the bed, and the motion of the mattress woke the boy up, but Jonathan didn't move. "I love you, but touch me again and I'll have to kill you," he said without opening his eyes.

"I'm not going to touch you," Pierre said. He settled down and put the tray between them. Jonathan smelled the food and rolled over, still not asking to be unchained. Pierre fed him, content not to use the silverware, and, licked off Jonathan's skin, the preserves were much better.

Jonathan sighed, and lay back onto his pillow. Pierre put the tray down, and ran a hand down Jonathan's body. The boy shuddered, but didn't respond as Pierre cupped Jonathan's testicles, holding them close to the boy's body. It wasn't sexual, but he liked the way they felt against his palm, and Jonathan sighed at the protection.

"You'll always be my little slave boy," Pierre whispered.

A slow smile spread across Jonathan's lips. "Love you, too, Pierre."

End 

 

 


End file.
